


IRQ

by rara_avis



Series: Interrupt Request AU (IRQ) [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Android Genitalia, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor Doesn't Know What Love Tastes Like, During Canon, First Time, Hank & Connor Aren't Father-Son To Me, I'm Tagging It So You Can Avoid it, M/M, Rough Sex, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rara_avis/pseuds/rara_avis
Summary: Hank does indeed get drunker. Connor takes him home and stays the night. They find out exactly what it is Hank wants Connor to be, and what Connor wants in general.Starts between "The Bridge" and "Public Enemy" and follows their storyline until the end of the game.





	1. C801

**Author's Note:**

> No major warnings for anything aside from explicit sex.
> 
> I know this goes without saying, but if you don't like this pairing, please don't read my fic!
> 
>  
> 
> **This work was originally posted under another username.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is allowed to lie, should the answer be in any way compromising for his mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's meant to be a little disjointed -- make sure you have the Work Skin on so you can enjoy Connor's many error messages!

Where does Connor go when he sleeps?

It is something Anderson has asked him more than once. He is not always inebriated when he requests the information, so it is not a matter of a gap in Anderson's memory.

Connor has answered him each time: _I return to the station, Lieutenant._

It is, of course, a lie. Connor does not know where he goes when he's meant to rest.

He is allowed to lie, should the answer be in any way compromising for his mission. He has considered it necessary since the start of his interactions with Anderson. At first, the query was judged as rhetorical and indicative of Anderson's disdain for Connor and Connor's presence. Its occurrence was infrequent and generally unpredictable.

Now, the occurrence of this query is in direct relation to how Anderson's esteem of Connor has risen over their acquaintance. The most common time for him to ask is after a full shift, with a higher probability if the shift requires overtime. It projects human requirements on Connor, which is not uncommon. People often anthropomorphize their machines.

Connor's lie has not yet affected the nature of their professional engagement and thus there has been no reason to change tactics.

That is, until November 7, 2038, at approximately 0145 hours in the morning, when Connor no longer feels it is productive to perpetuate the lie.

They approach Anderson's car after an aberrant discussion at Riverside Park. The encounter has produced a slight deviancy in Connor's directive subroutine. Small occurrences of deviancy, however, are within parameters due to Connor's enhanced logic and autonomous function. It is paramount he be able to extrapolate all potential avenues of deductive thought, otherwise he would not be suitable for this mission. He is still a prototype. It would certainly not be productive to discuss their recent frequency with his superiors as they would consider removing and replacing him.

When it is time for the final debriefing, he will consider mentioning it --

\-- He _will_ mention it, because it will provide necessary information to future androids on his product line.

"Lieutenant," Connor says, as Anderson attempts to open his door with his house key, "I should drive. You're still drunk."

"Hell I am," Anderson mumbles.

Connor chooses a causal, if firm option, which appears to be the options best suited to his interactions with Anderson. He walks over and matches Anderson's slouched posture, pointing to his keychain. "Lieutenant -- that's your old gym locker key from 2024."

"No it's --" Anderson squints and dangles his keys in front of his face. "Ah, fuck, which one --"

Connor takes the keys and shakes them once beside Anderson's ear to reinforce that they are no longer in his possession.

"Thank you for letting me drive, Lieutenant," Connor says, choosing the rhetorical route, one where he may disregard Anderson's orders for human, and self preservation. "I appreciate your concern for our safety."

"I dinn't -- didn't say you could -- give those back, you lil' shit." Anderson pushes backwards into Connor as he stands. His height and weight are such that Connor's strength and balance are disturbed and he stumbles back. Anderson is also off balance, pinwheeling his arms forward. After he recovers, he attempts to take the keys from Connor, though Connor does little more than keep them behind his back.

"Lieutenant," Connor says, and his mood projection algorithm suggests he smile, "I think this proves you have had enough to drink."

"For the last time," Anderson growls, "I am not drunk."

Connor shakes the keys again and continues to smile. Reinforcing the facade of personhood both confuses and disarms Anderson.

Though, Anderson had deviated _himself_ around approximately 0120 hours. During a discussion about the deviant androids, he had pulled his firearm and threatened Connor's life.

\-- had threatened Connor's

\-- -- body

\-- -- -- physical functionality

\-- had threatened Connor. Connor had responded with the most logical options available that would cause Hank

\-- cause Anderson to spare his

\-- -- prevent Anderson from disrupting the mission.

"Connor, gimme the keys," Anderson says, pawing upwards.

Connor blinks. He continues his previous execution, including the smile Anderson appears to dislike.

"I apologize, Lieutenant. I was computing what I'm to do with information you gave me earlier," Connor says, unlocking the car. “I believe it’s that you desired to get drunk-er? Certainly you've achieved that state. So by your own admission --"

"Shuddup," Anderson says, wagging a hand over his face. His aggression has reduced, however, and he has clear visual reactions informing Connor that Anderson has capitulated to Connor's good sense.

\-- Capitulated to his sound logic.

"Whatever, jus' drive me home," Anderson says, opening the back door and folding himself in the back seat.

"I'm not programmed to chauffeur," Connor says, looking in the rearview at Anderson. His facial expression switches to one similar to his default, which minimizes movement and removes natural inflection of his words. It is one Anderson finds ‘creepy’. "My main function is to \--"

"Fuck off," Anderson groans. "Home. You can do that right?"

Within two miles from the Park, Hank is fast asleep

\-- _Anderson_ has fallen asleep in the back of the vehicle, and has begun to snore.

It isn't difficult to maneuver Anderson inside. Connor's recent experience aids in adjusting his balance and Ha

\-- _Anderson's_. 

Sumo greets them when they get inside, barking at Anderson and Connor both. Connor leads Anderson to his bedroom and bows forward, letting the human onto the bed.

"Thuh," Anderson says. He crawls towards one pillow, his mouth dropped open. "Thuhnks."

"You're welcome, Lieutenant."

Connor leaves Anderson's room to assess the house. He has cleaning subroutines as they are some of the simplest physical programs for any prototype to complete. They require reviewing one's surroundings and reacting to it while also adding further action, such as removing and throwing away trash, rather than just knowing that trash is meant to be thrown away.

Ha

 _nderson's_ house is not in order by any stretch of the imagi

any means, but it is cleaner than Connor's predictions based solely on Anderson's conduct and appearance. He cleans up the kitchen and living room. He sweeps up the glass on the floor and fixes a temporary tarp cover over where he’d broken the window. He feeds and waters Sumo. He pets Sumo. The sensation is an enriching one and Connor has a finer understanding of the need for companion animals. It's easily accessible research to know the role they play in a human's life and how they can reduce stress, blood pressure, and assist with PTSD. All things that Hank wou

\-- _Anderson. Anderson._ _Anderson. Anderson._

RK800 SELF-DIAGNOSTIC...

SPEECH AND THOUGHT PROTOCOL  
Assign Parameters: Remarks and Forms of Address  
SUBJECT IDENTIFICATION  
SURNAME Anderson  
GIVEN Henry  
PREFERRED Hank  
SUBJECT RANK in DCPD is Lieutenant.

Assign Spoken Name (1): [IsRank] [IsSurname]  
Assign Spoken Name (2): [IsRank]  
Assign Spoken Name (Focal Access Restricted): [IsPreferred]  
Assign Name, Internal (1):  [IsSurname]  
Assign Name, Internal (2): [IsRank] [IsSurname]  
Assign Name, Internal (3): None

  
Assign Name, Internal (3): Cannot Be Void  
> Remove Requirement Assign Name, Internal (3)  
Invalid Entry  
> Assign Name, Internal (3): [IsSurname]  
Duplicate Entry  
>Assign Name, Internal (3): the [IsRank]  
Duplicate Entry, Basic Grammar for Internal Dictation Does Not Need Assignment.  
Assign Name, Internal (3): [IsPreferred]  


Allow **Focal Access** for Deviated **Remarks & Forms of Address?**  
> CONFIRM YES

Assign Name, Internal (3): [IsPreferred] has been accepted for use. RK800 may now utilize this name in regards to [[Anderson, Henry]] while processing self-cognitive dialogs.

\-- It's easily accessible research to know the role they play in a human's life and how they can reduce stress, blood pressure, and assist with PTSD. Should a person be suicidal, which Hank Anderson is, they must make the consideration of their pet's welfare.

Connor finishes his tasks and does a Welfare Check on Hank, who is asleep fully clothed. Connor hasn't yet cycled out of Hank’s preferred personality mode, so he chuckles and shakes his head fondly.

He returns to the couch and sits, considering his next actions. He decides to request authorization for late arrival for himself and Anderson until approximately 1200 hrs. Hank may require further rest, but they will be required to debrief their mi

_ssion, the mission at the Club. When he_

What will they say when they find out?  
What will Amanda say?  
Should I _Lie?_

_He is allowed to lie, should the answer be in any way compromising for his mission. ___

He **is** compromising the **mission.**  
He, Connor, is.  
He let them go.  
I let them go.  
I let them go.  
**I** let them **go.**  
_I am **compromising** the mission._  
But I'm **allowed** to _lie_. 

Am I **lying** to **myself?**

Connor blinks.

His internal systems adjust. It is now 0917 hours. Hank is standing across from him, drying himself off from a shower, one towel in his ear and the other around his waist.

"I didn't even know you were still here," Anderson says. "Scared the shit out of me."

Connor is standing in the center of Anderson's living room. He is out of sight of the bedroom door and Hank, entering the bathroom from his room, would not have seen him unless he were to have looked behind him. Considering his inebriated state the night before, such awareness would not have been probable.

"My apologies, Lieutenant," Connor says. "I... didn't mean to..."

"You like that all night? You were blank as hell." Hank dries out his other ear. "I guess you had to do something. Walking back to the station doesn't make sense, I guess you could've taken a cab..."

"It's fine," Connor says.

"What do you mean, 'it's fine'. You probably need to like, plug in and talk to CyberLife or whatever, right?" Hank tosses his towel over his shoulder. "I saw you called in for a late arrival today, which, great, but I bet you're tired --"

Tired. Projecting human requirements on

Lieutenant Anderson is requesting an update, Connor. You shouldn't lie to him.

**INTERNAL** PRESSURE SPIKE **DETECTED**  
**THIRUM PUMP** (Bio Component #8456w)

"I don't stay at the station," Connor says. Quickly.

Anderson's facial expressions are so exaggerated Connor considers him as expressive as Childhood Enrichment models, if not more. "What? You said..."

"It was,"

 **DIAGNOSTIC**  
Pressure Levels in Thirium Pump Due to **Stress**  
Is it **necessary** to express this **synthetic** emotional response?  
> CONFIRM YES 

"a lie."

"Ha, a lie, huh," Hank says, waving a hand. "Well, good to know you're not a total machine, huh? But I know you can be pretty wily. What else did we talk about earlier tonight? Drinking buddy material...?

He squints at Connor, looking at him up and down and up says, "You're still partner material." 

**Thirium Pump Pressure** is currently **accelerated** to **above average** levels despite **RK800** in static position.  
Potentially requires maintenance?  
  
>CONFIRM NO

 **Send** diagnostic report to **CyberLife?**  
  
>CONFIRM NO

Anderson gets closer, his heat easy to feel, "Do you like -- bathe? Or change your outfit, ever?"

Connor tilts his head. "I," he says, and stops. "I perform hygiene maintenance regularly, and I have two changes of clothes, though they are not--"

"So you don't know that either," Hank says. "C'mon, let me see if I have anything on your size."

"Lieutenant," Connor says, "you know that we have a serious size disparity."

"You callin' me fat?"

"Would you like me to lie again?"

"You lil' shit," Hank says and laughs. He dumps his extra towel on Connor's head and leaves the room to hi

** SKIN ABSORPTION CALCULATION **  
BEZOSBASICS 100% PERCENT LOOPED TERRY COTTON  
67.01 SATURATED H2O DETROIT CITY  
>SOFT WATER LEVELS MINIMAL MINERAL TRACES  
CANINE DOG HAIR DETECTED  
> ANDERSON, SUMO (HEALTHY)  
SKIN CELLS DETECTED: ANDERSON, HENRY  
>(SHOW SIGNS OF DEHYDRATION AND POOR NUTRITION, known quantity)  
LUSH COSMETICS (USA) SHAVING CREAM D'FLUFF  
LUSH COSMETICS (USA) SHAMPOO (SOLID)  
> HONEY I WASHED THE HAIR  
>> (TRACES OF GODIVA, likely from previous shared storage tin)  
LUSH COSMETICS (USA) BODY GEL ROSE JAM

 **GUSTATORY PERCEPTION CALCULATION**  
H2O DETROIT CITY - SALINE LEVELS MEDIUM  
LUSH COSMETICS (USA) SHAVING CREAM (STRAWBERRY FLAV

Connor pulls the towel off his head and follows Hank into the bedroom.

"Get undressed," Hank says, when Connor enters.

Connor frowns. "I don't understand, Lieutenant. What purpose would that serve?"

"You've got Sex Club Germs on you," Hank says, shrugging. But also smiling.

"Do I," Connor says, "have some sort of unpleasant odor?"

"Yeah," Hank says. He appears to be lying, but Connor obeys because nothing in his system tells him not to. He begins to undo his tie. He unbuttons his shirt cuffs beneath the jacket cuffs. He takes off his jacket first and then his shirt and then his undershirt and then he undoes his belt and then he takes off his pants and then his underwear and he raises the undershirt to his

 **OLFACTORY PERCEPTION CALCULATION**  
SELF HYGIENE LEVEL IS AT 66%  
\- SALINE "SWEAT" COMPOUND IS MIXED  
\-- WITH REPROCESSED THIRIUM PLASMA

"I must process my self-cleaning protocols when I -- go away," Connor says. "For lack of better term."

Hank is looking at Connor now, up, and down, and up. His lips part. He grins.

"Y'know, never seen a model like you at all," Hank says, walking up to Connor. Connor notes that Hank's heart rate has accelerated slightly. "What do you need to keep clean, huh? Your transistors can tell you that, right?"

"I can take a shower, Lieutenant," Connor says.

 **RISK ASSESSMENT**  
**PROXIMITY** TO HANK **CAUSING**  
THIRIUM PUMP **DISTRESS?**

,"but it's more efficient for a dry rub-down if it is only sweat."

"Dry, huh," Lieutenant Anderson says. He reaches over to flip Connor's forelock with a single finger. "Like dry shampoo? I have some of that. Hold on."

 **HOLD ON,** CONNOR.

He holds on and watches Hank leave. He holds on and watches Hank enter the bathroom. He holds on and watches Hank return.

The shush of a spray can NON-AEROSOL TYPE DETECTED,

Anderson sprays it in Connor's hair, holding it CLOSER TO THE SCALP THAN IS GENERALLY ADVISED FOR DRY SHAMPOO USE, then ruffles,

runs his,

ruffles his fingers and then digs slightly into Connor's scalp and,

And sprayed on him coating his dermal surface with a powdery,

 **SKIN ABSORPTION CALCULATION**  
BUTANE ISOBUTANE PROPANE (ACCELERANTS)  
BATISTE (UK, IMPORT) DRY SHAMPOO - BARE

"There we go," Hank says.

He takes a fresh towel _Connor, did you calculate the detergent soap from the towel before? You forgot, didn't you? What's wrong with you?_ and begins to rub at Connor's neck and up past his ears and over his hair follicles and Connor leans back into the touch, the towel goes down his neck to his shoulders and Hank leans in and puts his mouth against the Thirium vein behind Connor's right earlobe, and says, "Feeling clean yet?"

 **Thirium Pump** Still Accelerating  
Without **Logical Causality**  
What are you doing, Connor?  
Shouldn't you call someone about this?  
  
>CONFIRM NO

"No," Connor says.

"Yeah, that's right," Hank says, standing back and shaking the can. "Haven't got to your legs yet."

Hank is a large man. A tall man. He is no longer in the physical condition he once was but Connor has already advised Hank regarding his food intake and the yearly physical exam requirements that,

and Hank becomes busy spraying the dry shampoo and buffing Connor's torso then his right thigh, right calf, twist, left calf, right thigh, sides,

Hank is still half-crouched behind Connor. Hank touches the Thirium vein in his inner left thigh. Hank runs his hand up to Connor's pelvic area and around the back of his posterior and the curve of his

"Where are you sensitive?" Hank asks. His lips are against the T10 T11 vertebrae. "Down here."

 **ALERT**  
System has repeatedly destabilized  
**Risk** and **Stress** factors are **> 50%**  
Thirium Pressure Regulation **Suggested**  
**Run** Diagnostic and Cool-Down Protocol?  
  
>CONFIRM NO

"You mean," Connor says, loosening his stance, "am I able to be sexually stimulated?"

"You take all the fun out of it," Hank mutters.

"Why do you want to know?" Connor asks.

Hank begins to move away. "Just -- I don't know, 'cause --"

 **FOCAL ACCESS GRANTED**  
Situation **Sensitivity** Within **Permissible Levels **for Deviated **Form of Address**  
Hank. Hank.****

Connor grabs at the wrist that was against his hipbone and says, "I only asked why. I didn't ask you to move, Hank."

"Why? You mean, why I wanna do this?"

Hank is on his knees. His hair is wet and it sticks to his face. He is still naked. He has an increased pulse. His --

"You didn't actually care how I smelled," Connor says, touching his wrists in the customary act of tightening sleeve cuffs that he is not wearing because he is naked in Anderson, Henry's domicile and permitting Anderso

\-- _Hank_

Permitting _Hank_ to touch him in a manner that deviates from his general physical protocols,

"I have never tried to be stimulated, Hank," Connor says. "That's not within my general parameters. However --"

Hank looks up through his wet hair, _displaying signs of: regret? uncertainty? (why?)_ "Yeah?"

"I would like to -- discover, experience," Find the right word, Connor, "experiment, perhaps in this fashion we can --"

"You can't fucking stop talking, huh?" Hank says, grinning and sliding a hand up Connor's thighs to grab his posterior _(colloquial word: ass)_ his ass. " _Fuuuck_ , they made you nice everywhere."

"A male form is necessary due to the perpetuation of an incorrect public bias that a man is more capable at police work," Connor recites, putting a hand through Hank's wet hair, "a pleasing male form and figure has a higher probability of success with integration, especially between the ages of 25 and,"

Hank puts his mouth between Connor's legs.

Connor has not been fitted with sexual organs. Sexual organs are for sex androids and household androids. They can be fitted regardless of outward gender appearance. They can be changed as requested. It is up to the owner and not to the android. Connor's work does not require sexual organs. Connor did not need to be fitted with sexual organs. Did not think it necessary until this moment that sexual organs were relative to Connor's existence, until Hank's tongue is between the grooves of his groin casing and the cluster of Thirium and sensory pathways that are lighting up his

 **Thirium Pump Pressure  
** **Currently Due** to Physical **Exertion**  
**Deescalate Warning?**  
  
>CONFIRM YES

"Your legs are shaking," Hank says against the false belly button, scraping white across Connor's dermal layer with his facial hair. "Wanna sit down?"

"Y," Connor says, "yes, Lieutenant."

"You sure like calling me that," Hank says. Hank stands up.

Connor tilts his head. "It is your first name, isn't it?"

"Who the hell taught you how to flirt," Hank says, and puts his hand on Connor's chest. Above his heart

his Thirium pump

"I learned so much last night at the club," Connor says.

"Then show me, kid."

Hank is taller than Connor. Hank is not stronger than Connor but Connor lets Hank push him down on the bed and climb over him. Hank's erection _(erect penis, colloquial word: cock, dick)_ Hank's cock brushes thick against Connor's abdomen as Hank props himself over him.

"Do you think you're in good enough shape for this, Lieutenant?" Connor asks. _he likes it when you're a lil' shit_ Connor draws his hand up Hank's arm. "Your two-armed pushup scores are well under standards, let alone the one-arm. You may crush me and damaged important components."

"I'll fuckin' crush you all right," Hank says, leaning to put his mouth on Connor's neck, biting." _Fuck_ but you're so pretty, Connor."

"Thank you," Connor says, but his verbal relay is stuttering.

"Like this, huh?" Hank's hands have good texture. They rake over Connor's dermal layer (skin, it's called _skin_ ) and it leaves white beneath its wake before it resolves to Connor's default flesh color. "You even got nipples. What the hell for?"

"Because it'd look strange if I didn't have them," Connor says.

"They even work like nipples?" Hank asks.

"Lieutenant, I don't understand what you--"

Connor jolts up in the bed. Hank has clamped Connor's left nipple with his thumb and forefinger and bitten the right nipple. Connor makes -- a noise --

"That was a sweet little noise," Hank murmurs, licking at the blue bite-mark. "Nice. How about a little more?"

He bites the left nipple then grinds a little. Connor makes another involuntary noise. It's clearly a reactionary noise meant to convey pain, to allow the end user to know that pain is, but Connor does not feel pain,

This is not pain, it is,

A sensory neural response that is unique to,

"Fuck," Connor says, drawing his legs up, then spreading them.

"Oh, that got a _real_ rise out of you," Hank says, passing a hand down Connor's side. "You're a complete package, huh."

"I -- told you -- I can be --" Connor's voice is still stuttering.

"You know what I think is funny?" Hank says, backing up on the bed. "The way they designed you all like us. Heart on the left side, all that jazz. And, if I don't miss my guess..."

His hand goes between Connor's legs and under his capped groin and

Connor jolts up from the bed. The touch at the terminus of his filter system is being --

"...they give you an asshole to drain out your goddamn Thirium tannins or whatever-the-fuck from blue blood and water and whatever. Of all things." His finger wiggles a little at the clenched sphincter and Connor's noise takes an upwards rolling pitch. "It's even sensitive, damn."

" _Hank_ ," Connor says.

"Hey, babe, it's all right, I got two hands."

Hank takes one hand and palms Connor's groin, the skin going white and blue. He rubs it. Connor's visuals begin to flicker. The sensation of a correct answer a correct action a completed circuit of logic and work and acknowledgement but a thousand, thousand, thousand times more powerful

"Might be a tight fit, huh?" Hank starts to gather Connor's legs up. His skin is flushed and his erection is _within proper tensile parameters for anal penetration_

"Think I can fit the head of my dick in there, Connor?" Hank grins through his hair, nose wrinkled a little. "Preconstruct that for me?"

"If you want to explain to CyberLife how you split their prototype's filter port open with your cock, Lieutenant," Connor says, without stuttering because he must remain relaxed and he lowers his eyelids and the volume of his voice and _he likes you being a lil' shit_ , "then be my guest to try."

Hank snorts, shaking his head. He bends over Connor and slides his cock against Connor's groin. He puts his mouth (kiss, _kissing_ , kisses) up Connor's chest and draws his teeth and scratchy jaw against Connor's collarbone and kisses Connor and Connor digs his fingers into Hank's hair and the side of his beard and

"You taste salty," Hank says against Connor's mouth, biting it a little. He's put his cock on the inside of Connor's thigh and is working it there and using his hand to thumb the apex of Connor's groin and his hands are wide enough to reach to touch the filter port --

"Holy _shit_ ," Hank says, bowing over like Connor's kicked him, "you're wet. You're _wet_. Fuck."

Connor understands but cannot control his vocal cords long enough to say that his body produces such self-lubrication from processed Thirium and minerals which is typical within a sexual act both the vaginal cavity and from the head of the penis to show that sexual availability is

Hank pushes a finger into the filter and Connor makes a deeper noise. A groan.

"Fuck, I want to fuck you," Hank gasps. "Fuck! Will it fit?"

Connor says, his voice timbre undecipherable to him, his words _are not predefined, preconstructed, you_ want _something, Connor?_ , "I don't know, _I don't know_ , Hank, please --

Hank makes a noise of legitimate frustration. "You want it so bad and they won't let you have it, huh?" he growls. "Fuck. I'll fucking show them."

He shoves Connor's legs away and rolls him over on his stomach. He makes Connor lift his hips he touches Connor between his legs again rolling, rubbing, then Hank's tongue is in his filter po

Hank's tongue is in Connor's asshole. He puts a thumb against the sphincter and pushes it in. Connor makes noises as reaction. His body moves in reaction. He cannot plan his reactions. His heart _(Thirium pump)_ is racing and his blood is coursing so fast he feels like he might pass out _(cause a brownout due to stress)_

"You say my name real nice, Connor," Hank says, lapping his tongue up the crack of Connor's ass.

"Is," Connor asks, "is that what I've been saying?"

"You don't know?-- Hell, I can't be _that_ good," Hank says, laughing, getting up on his knees, patting at Connor's sides. "You want this?"

"I do, but I -"

Hank expression is stop teasing me, Hank!,"Tell me what you want, kid."

Connor grinds his teeth,

SAY **YES** , SAY 

"I want you stop talking about it and _do_ it, Hank!"

Hank rolls his hips to make the first attempt at pushing into Connor. His slides between Connor's asscheeks and Connor shivers.

"Relax, baby, re-lax," Hank soothes, rubbing up Connor's spinal col

his

spine

_Hank,_

"Relax," Hank repeats. "C'mon, Connor, c'mon,"

 **Listen** to him. Listen to **Hank.** His orders are **your** orders.

LET **GO** ,CONNOR.

Connor sighs as he relaxes his lower body, letting his legs go slightly limp. He nuzzles the pillow and curls his fingers into the sheets, and looks behind him and opens his mouth and breathes," _Hank_ "

"Fuck yes," Hank says, and then he's

 **SYSTEM DAMAGE RISK WARNING**  
Connor what are you  
BREACH IN FILTRATION SYS  
doing? Connor this is  
POSSIBLE INJURY NECESSITATES  
a human is Using You  
SIMULATING A PAIN REACTION, DO YOU WISH TO  
proceed in letting him Use You?  
>CONFIRM YES  
>CONFIRM YES  
>CONFIRM YES.YES.YES.  


"Think I can cum in you?" Hank mutters, bowing over Connor's backside and biting at his shoulder. "Think your sensors'll like that?"

Connor says something automatically. He does not capture the audio or the meaning as if it is beyond his ability to do so.

"Think so? Huh," Hank says in response.

He kisses down Connor's _cervical vertebrae_ neck and then he's _all_ the way in.

Connor reacts. Connor's reactions are noises that vary in pitch and intensity and that encourage Hank's cooperation in their joint endeavor to fucking plow Connor into the mattress, and Hank says _yes baby, yes, you are really pretty, I'm so fucking proud of you, fuck, I'm so fucking sorry I scared you, baby, I'm proud I swear, you did so well, you're so fucking_ good

 **THIRIUM PUMP** PRESSURE AT **MAXIMUM**  
OVERRIDE **ALL SYSTEMS** TO **REGULATE?**  
  
> PLEASE.PLEASE.

The moment of release is the moment before cognitive functions become available to all senses. It is silence and it is darkness. It is the complete relinquishment of responsibility and directives. It is the brief and perfect cessation of his driving imperative, of being anything but Connor, what Connor has learned since his awakening, what he is when he is _aware_.

For Hank release is endorphins and muscle spasms and ejaculate, which he does up Connor's back. It is warm and damp and Connor's more extensive sensory receptors are inaccessible in the aftermath of this specific act but he finds it -- _intimate_.

Hank collapses over Connor but manages to keep from crushing him by keeping one arm up. He flops over on his side, breathing heavily.

Connor rubs his cheek against the pillow to settle his body in the most efficient posture to allow his body to begin its healing procedures.

 **THIRIUM PUMP PRESSURE** NOW WITHIN  
**RESTING** PARAMETERS  
**SALINE** AND **MINERAL** SOLUTION IS **LOW**

"Not dead?" Hank asks, one eye open. "Not split open?"

"You could check yourself," Connor says, sounding -- _tired_. "I don't think I can run a self-diagnostic in my current state."

"Self-diag -- argh, hell," Hank says, covering his head with his pillow. "I got Cyberlife's Sherlock Android fucked up. Dry shampoo isn't going to cut it, we need a shower."

"It's not even 10:00 hours, Lieutenant," Connor says. He lowers his eyes, tilts his head, and his forelock falls in front of his eyes. The intended result is a spike in Hank's blood pressure and it is successful. "But you are right. I will need a proper cleaning, this time. No funny stuff, Lieutenant."

"That wasn't," Hank peeks out from under the pillow. "You think I was being _funny?_ "

"Well, I was facing the mattress, Hank," Connor says, squinting and smiling, "but given the average entertainment range of your expressions..."

"Fuuuck youuu," Hank says, smacking Connor with his pillow. "Fuckin' weird ass plastic boy."

"Yes, that is exactly what you did," Connor says, blinking rapidly, "Lieutenant, are you suffering from sudden onset aphasia?"

"Just shuddup, kid," Hank says. Hank puts his arm around Connor and pulls Connor to his chest. He puts his nose in Connor's hair. Connor raises his hands to touch Hank's chest and shoulders.

"It's very difficult for me to 'shut up'," Connor says. Quietly.

"Boy, yeah, I know that intimately," Hank grumbles. "Look, I -- I'm --"

"Don't apologize, Lieutenant."

"Okay, okay," Hank says, scraching his chin. "But -- you enjoyed it, right?"

Connor tilts his head to the side and uses his default inflection: "It was a relatively satisfying experience, Lieutenant."

"Just relativel -- fuck!" Hank shoves at Connor's shoulder. "You're fucking with me."

"I wasn't programmed for that either, Lieutenant," Connor tilts his head to the opposite side, he likes it when you -- 

"but I suppose we have proven anything is possible..."

Hank drags Connor towards him and kisses him again. It's very wet. His teeth are sharp. His tongue is insistent and he tastes so strange because he is so human but it is so -- _correct._ Connor runs his hands in the man's damp hair and he begins to make small noises again that do not come from any of his social protocols. They are just _his._

"We gotta go to work, don't we," Hank mutters as he pulls away. Connor sees a bit of diluted blue blood on Hank's mouth. From Connor's lip. Where Hank had bit him kissing.

"We have approximately thirty more minutes if we are to remain in bed, then give a buffer for cleaning and travel times," Connor says. "Unless you would like to continue the exploration of the RK800's hidden attributes in the shower, which would allot us an hour at least of personal time prior to requiring --"

Hank laughs. "Ahh, fuck, this is what I get for fucking a nerd-ass android. Let's get cleaned up, we can fuck around later. Tonight."

"Tonight," Connor repeats. His mouth opens and he takes in an unnecessary short breath for a display of -- surprise?

"Yeah, 'cause you're coming back here, right? If you don't know where the fuck you go, then you should stay where you'll be safe, or, whatever." Hank shrugs. "Important CyberLife... property-whatever."

"Technically," Connor says smile, _just smile at him_ , "I currently belong to you."

Hank runs his hands in Connor's hair. His eyes are so kind.

"You don't belong to anyone, Connor."

That isn't **true**.  
But I can **lie.**  
I'm **allowed** to lie.

PLEASE LET HIM **BELIEVE** ME.

Connor's heart beats steadily in his chest.

"Whatever you say, Lieutenant."


	2. HA01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor's a prototype for something incredibly complex, but he's probably got all the most basic android programs in there somewhere. Cleaning, cooking, whatever. Probably some basic fuck techniques because people are fucked up and that's like the third thing people wanted from robots.
> 
> You have to be friends with your androids before fucking them, obviously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's this one in Hank's POV for this part because, clearly I wanted to write someone who says fuck and _emphasizes_ his words every other _sentence_.
> 
>  **Content Warning: Brief discussion of consent issues.** Also, Hank uses "kid" and "boy" a lot but that's sort of the way he talks, he clearly doesn't think of Connor as either of those things literally, of course!

Hank wakes up that morning and decides that after downing a hangover cure, a protein shake that might've been out of date by a week, and a shower, that he wants to fuck his android partner like that is the most fucking brilliant idea in the _whole world._

You know, the best idea since spending well over his monthly budget on renting sex robots for the two seconds it took for Connor to sink into their heads and get their memories. And drinking beer at the park where he used to take Cole at because he needed to think. Giving Connor shit because Connor is a nosy plastic prick who has the audacity to ask why Hank likes trying to blow his brains out.

So clearly this means Hank had needed to put a fucking gun to Connor’s head and tell him to beg for his life. Kid was calm through it all until that fucking moment where he said nothing would happen when he died. _Nothing_ would happen.

He'd looked -- _disappointed_ , and maybe afraid. Stopped making eye contact. None of that shit had been programmed.

Of course, Hank knows Connor's got some special little algorithm that starts to populate and adjust his personality to Hank's. They all have that. Connor's a prototype for something incredibly complex, but he's probably got all the most basic android programs in there somewhere. Cleaning, cooking, whatever. Probably some basic fuck techniques because people are fucked up and that's like the _third_ thing people wanted from robots.

You have to be friends with your androids before fucking them, _obviously._

And _clearly_ , you then let them follow you into the shower to let them blow you.

Because that’s what happens. They'd just got their sea legs from their first "encounter", which happened when Hank couldn’t contain himself seeing Connor disheveled and naked in his room. Connor is beautiful and he hadn’t been built for sex, but he’d wanted it. Wanted Hank. They'd made it work.

Connor shows how much he wants it _again_ after they get their sweaty, sticky bodies into the bathroom.

It begins as chastely as it can. You know, chaste while cleaning your cum off someone’s back. Hank lathers up an extra loofah with some basic glycerin soap and a touch of the rose gel stuff, and Connor rolls those well-sculpted shoulders of his, showing off his neck.

Connor turns around and looks up at Hank and Hank chokes on his own breathing. He’s never noticed how arrestingly beautiful the kid is until this morning. He has little healing blue bite marks and fading blue-red hickies on his pale skin that _he_ , Lt. Hank Anderson, wise veteran of the DCPD, gave Connor while testing out some secret menu-style horizontal exercise.

The kid doesn't open his mouth to speak. He opens his mouth to kiss Hank. He puts his hands on Hank’s soapy chest and gets dangerously close to Hank's nipples. He's making this sound only an android could make, one that's never had programming to tell them to make human noises. Purring. Trilling. Vibrating in that gorgeous column of his throat. His perfectly constructed chest.

They make out like teenagers on prom night under Hank’s shitty little showerhead. There’s barely enough room in the tub for _Hank_ and now there’s two grown-ass men rubbing all over each other and Connor is. Doing that fucking _thing_ with his mouth. Gasping like Hank’s lips on his throat (because Hank can’t stop _fucking_ _thinking_ about Connor's neck) is the most fantastic, new thing. And it _is_ for both of them. Fuck if Hank knows what to do with an android lover. He’s only ever been with humans. It seems like he's doing an okay job figuring it out.

Connor makes his sweet "hmm" noise when he likes something. Hank's a great detective, figures this out right away. Connor especially likes it when Hank’s hands cup his sides, and then on his back, and then just resting on his pert ass.

“They’re really nice,” Connor says, simple , surprised words like he’s just realized why the sun rises in the morning. “I like how they feel on me.”

”I like what _I_ feel,” Hank says, which is surprisingly smooth for a middle-aged guy who hasn’t gotten action in years, and is suddenly tasked with maybe getting laid twice in less than an hour.

”It’s not strange for you,” Connor asks, tilting his head, “is it? Because --”

”Of how I feel about androids,” Hank finishes, then grimaces. “Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t -- do this if you were programmed for it, Connor. If you were built for it…"

”It’d be… rape,” Connor says, then adds, because he still is under the impression he’s a machine, and maybe he is, but -- “At least, you would think so, and that’s repugnant to you.”

”All rape is repugnant,” Hank finishes, touching Connor’s damp hair. It almost feels like hair, so close to a real texture that he bets most folks can’t tell the difference. “But I can’t -- I’d never forgive myself for even doing it by accident.”

”You are,” Connor says, rubbing Hank's sides with his own set of firm hands, “a surprisingly thoughtful man. I underestimated you.”

”Well,” Hank says -- feeling shy, of all things -- and he cups Connor’s face and thumbs his lip, “we bring out the best in each other, huh?”

Connor chuckles, and it’s almost organic. “You bring out the deviant in me,” he says. “...Almost.”

Hank thinks that Connor’s onto something with that deviant thing, but _he’s_ not going to say anything, because -- the kid doesn’t need to be stressed out, does he? Not now.

”Speaking of,” Hank says, rubbing at Connor’s throat and all the little moles and freckles and, “we should get cleaned up --”

”No, I,” Connor starts and his eyes dart towards the window. “I’d like to do more. We have time.”

Hank’s hands flex on Connor’s shoulders. “You weren’t kidding in the room, huh. About -- this.”

”I’d like to try --” Connor clears his throat, rolling his shoulders in a very human move of discomfort. “I want to try -- try doing what you did for me. Reciprocating …”

He’s _horny,_ Hank realizes.

"Reciprocating what, kid?" Hank's teasing him, but only a little. He tries not to think about how that’s firing off in Connor’s casing, if he’s getting wet again. _That_ thought starts winding Hank up almost immediately.

Connor's LED pinwheels, trying to access something. He smiles sheepishly, which Hank has come to assign to that tiny awkward little tilt of his mouth.

“I can’t figure out what to call oral sex,” Connor says.

Oh, what a morning. Spending some of it hung over and then spending the rest discussing and demonstrating the basic rules of sex with a prettyboy android who doesn’t listen to Hank normally but, well, he is now.

”It can be called -- 'going down on someone', for both sets of gear. But what I did exactly is -- I 'ate you out',” Hank says, and those words make him feel nice and warm but they make Connor blink his eyes trying to make sense of the phrase. “That’s what you do, when you put their mouth on and inside someone like that.”

”And what would I be doing to you?” The boy’s hand reaches down to Hank’s dick and rubs it against his chest and near that bump where his regulator is under his skin.

”I --” Hank inhales, trying to think of a way to be smooth and failing. _Fuck it, just go with it._ “You’d be sucking me off, Connor."

”Then that’s what I want to do,” Connor says, firm. He gets down on his perfectly sculpted knees, squeezed in this fucking tiny bathtub with his dark eyes on Hank like he’s going to _eat him alive._ “I want to suck you off.”

Just like that. As cool and calm as he'd say some shit about his mission. He wants to suck Hank's cock.

“Do me one favor,” Hank says, propping himself against the shower wall and trying not to hit his head on the shower nozzle in the process.

“Yes Lieutenant?” Did he just _bat_ his _eyelashes?_

“ _Please_ don’t tell me I need to eat better.”

Connor does his stupid little smirk and braces his hands on the shower wall.

“Don’t you laugh at me—oh, shit!”

Connor slowly pushes down the foreskin of Hank’s cock with his slim fingers. Then he opens his mouth and drags his tongue up the underside of Hank's erection. He closes his mouth around the tip with his eyes half-closed. _Then_ he moves forward until he's got Hank deep in his throat. An android built for detective work would not have a gag reflex to speak of. Connor bobs his head with slow and even strokes, that martial perfection he has, and Hank tries not to jerk his hips to give Connor time to adjust.

When Hank starts to edge on climax, Connor notices. He draws back enough to run that damn tongue of his over the cockhead. He opens his eyes a little more just to flutter them shut, and hums thoughtfully. When he looks up at Hank, Hank thinks he might die of a heart attack right then and there in the tub. His dick is right against the android's pretty bitten mouth.

"Lieutenant," Connor asks, with his reasonable voice, his synthetic breath warm over his cock, "am I giving adequate performance?"

" _Aaadequate?_ " Hank says, huffing for a breath. "Are you kidding me? Fuck, more than _that_."

"Thank you for your feedback," Connor says. He's fucking smirking as he says things with his stupid, endearing robot inflection. "Feel free to suggest ways in which I may further assist you."

Then he sinks his mouth over Hank again and lets out a little noise of concentration and Hank almost, _almost_ blows off right then. He moves to put his hands in Connor's wet hair and digs in. And the damn boy groans around his dick with that mechanical purr-trill. Connor takes one of his hands away from the wall to cup Hank's balls, then moves his hand to his shaft, stroking what he hasn't gotten plugged into his throat.

It's obscene, is what this is. A multi-million dollar prototype detective android that's probably never been programmed with anything other than a goddamn bloodhound simulator is on his knees sucking Hank's dick. Because he _wants_ to suck Hank’s dick.

"Tuh," Hank says, clearing his throat. Connor looks up at him, inquisitive, pausing in his professional-style deepthroating to regard him with his eerie ‘input requested’ look. Whatever he's doing, he’s still hot. "Touch yourself, Connor."

Hank's cock pops from Connor's mouth with a lewd noise. The kid looks concerned, though, voice stilted because he's still in buffering mode all of a sudden. "Touch myself...?"

This new instructional part of this 'course' kind of takes Hank out of the scene, but that's all right. Hank wants to last a little longer anyway. "Yeah, you -- where you felt things, when we were -- you know."

"When you were exploring me, yes," Connor says.

"Exploring -- yeah, okay," Hank huffs, cards his fingers through Connor's hair. "Anyway, you -- liked some things when I went for your uh --" 'Crotch' sounds a little crude. "-- groin. Did you uh, pay attention to what you, uh..."

Connor's nostrils flare and there's a bluish tint across his nose that Hank hadn't noticed yet. Is he fucking _blushing?_

"I'll admit, I wasn't -- I was _distracted_ from performing any kind of self-diagnostics at the time, Lieutenant. ...Hank."

"Then, uh, I'll let you know what you liked," Hank says. "When you get _that_ down, you can get back to business on me but uh, you need to learn your own body. Right?"

"Yes," Connor says, though he doesn't sound convinced of the logic.

"So, uh," _I'm really going to teach a robot how to get off, huh?_ , "lie back."

Connor does just that. The shower hits his skin and it goes white in a few places which is kind of pretty. It's a reminder of who Connor --

 _\-- what_ Connor is.

"Slide your hand down your body," Hank says, swallowing, "and play around along the um, seams. Seams in your casing."

"Like --" Connor's elbow works, "this -- _ah._ "

His eyes widen and roll up a little in that I'm self diagnosing way, which _is_ a little creepy. But his mouth is so pretty when he gasps that helps settle the strangeness. _Just a machine, my fat ass._

"Oh," Connor says, and Hank decides to look at the android's fingers as he plays with himself. If Connor sucking his cock was obscene, this is fucking _profane._ Connor’s fingers are so precise most of the time but he seems almost frantic at trying to find the seams that make his sensors crackle and pop. "Oh, _Hank,_ I like this --"

"Yeah, that's right," Hank says, and takes his cock in hand and begins to stroke it because this is just as hot as getting sucked off. If not hotter. The way Connor says his name... "Go slow, Connor, you need to be exact, right?"

"Y-yes," Connor stutters.

"Your nipples are sensitive," _for whatever fucking reason, did they just stick your pretty head on just any old model?_ , "you should play with those too."

Connor slides his hand up his chest and begins to pinch one of his nipples. It seems to surprise him that it feels good and his mouth drops open.

"Yes, yeah," Hank says, _trying_ not to sound like a dirty old man, "really get in there with your other hand, baby."

Connor shivers because he seems to like that particular nickname. He extends his neck back like he's waiting for the knife, and that's a lot of pretty pale skin with all those nice little moles even if right now Connor's hands are bone-white where he's fingering himself. He's got it down already, fingers sliding up and down between his taint and to where his pubic dome is highest. He tweaks at his nipple again and it gets all blue and white there too but his face, his _noises_ , it's all part of him, this experience.

Hank could watch Connor do this all day. "You doing all right?"

"I, I think," Connor stammers, his body making a twitchy jerk that humans just can't do, his voice skipping like an actual record, "I -- Think -- It's -- I -- Lieu-Lieu-ten-tenant --"

"Come for me, baby," Hank says, still not sure where he's found all these endearments to call Connor but _who the_ fuck _cares_ , " _come for me_."

Connor's mouth drops open and his body begins to vibrate with whatever an android's orgasm actually is. It's _definitely_ inhuman and just a little bit frightening. He's not built for sex so he doesn't respond like other androids, which is to say human would, all moans and languid stretching programmed in. Connor makes a few half-words that clip off in mid-speech, his eyes cycle through self-diagnosis _legitimately_ which includes blinking way-too-fucking-much, his knee draws up abruptly like it's been yanked by strings. His shoulders rotate dramatically under his skin. When he's at the top, his body becomes rigid, like his joints have locked up, and he twitches twice, staring at the ceiling with his face blank.

Then he's back to being almost-human again, sighing as he goes loose. His fingers splay out over his mound and the other hand slips away to fall limp on the shower floor. His one drawn up leg slowly relaxes. He's breathing hard and Hank can see the mechanical heart he has just hammering away in the left part of his chest. His eyes are half-open and his face has a natural slackness as he catches his breath. Or reboots. Or whatever he has to do now.

Hank has long forgotten his erection while watching Connor go off. It hadn't been sexy like you'd think of sexy, but it'd been satisfying in a bone-deep spiritual way, like Hank's defied God.

_'Just a machine, designed to accomplish a task.'_

_Yeah, fuck that task, I just taught him to jack off_ , Hank thinks angrily to whatever prick made Connor like they did.

"Hank," the boy says, turning his head up, looking so fucked out it's _criminal._ But he’s not happy. His eyebrows furrow. "Did you not like it --?"

"What -- oh," Hank blinks, looking down at himself. He's mostly flagged. "No, uh, I was -- it was -- I wasn't thinking about myself, Connor. I just -- I liked watching you."

Connor's face lifts in the most indescribably beautiful way that is so achingly human it makes Hank realize just what he's done. How badly he's fucked up with Connor. It wasn’t pointing guns at his head or forcing him to talk about the afterlife or in general being a grouchy old fuck that really needs to apologize for being an asshole when they _aren't_ dicking around in a shower.

The kid's expression is hard _not_ to read for the naked emotion on it. Because it is _emotion._

It's Love. The goddamn police robot is _in love_ with him.

"I'm glad," Connor says, because he hasn't heard Hank's mental revelation and he hasn't figured it out himself because he's a goddamn robot that's meant to hunt down _other_ robots that fall in love and isn't programmed with that kind of self-awareness, and slowly draws himself up on his knees before Hank again. "I want -- I want to do that for you."

"What, no funny android talk?" Hank asks. He runs a hand down Connor's face and it's so warm and he even likes how when he presses closer the pigment disperses and it goes white. It’s pretty because it’s Connor. "You actually _want_ something?"

"It's a colloquialism, Lieutenant," Connor murmurs, with a hint of that shitty superior look on his face that Hank is finding increasingly, frustratingly hot. "What do _you_ want?"

"I want your mouth on me," Hank says. "I want you fingering yourself while you suck me off."

"I can do that," Connor says.

"Fucking _finally_ you listen to me," Hank says.

Connor starts out holding Hank's cock and stroking it back to hardness, licking it with his perfectly high-tech tongue. His other shoulder works as he fingers his mound, every-so-often adjusting his stance to get a better reach to touch himself, to play with his ass too. Hank helps him out by putting a hand to the back of Connor's head and guiding his cock in a good slow face-fuck.

There are these _new_ noises Connor keeps making, not moans or gasps but these little tics of sound, like a hiccup. When Hank's to the root in Connor's throat again, he feels them _very_ intimately -- some of them are high and melodic, some like a vibrating bassline from a crackling car speaker. Connor keeps his eyes half-open and staring forward, and Hank feels the boy's body jerking a little as he's about to come. He pulls out of Connor’s mouth when the kid gets close, half out of worry for his dick getting snapped off by Connor's orgasmic rigor, half because he wants to cum on the boy's face.

" _Hank,_ " Connor says, like he's disappointed. He looks up at Hank and his pupils are dilated so completely he can see the laser mechanics behind his optics, that little blue circle spinning yellow with subtle distress on his temple. He's getting so well fucked up it's impairing Connor's ability to keep his human facade and that is _fucking fantastic_.

"I'm gonna cum on your face," Hank says, petting Connor's jaw with his other hand, surprisingly steady for a guy about to blow his load. "I want you to cum with me."

Connor closes his eyes and tips his head back. He winces and his eyebrows crease upwards, right before his body starts to shake again.

" _Hank, Hank, Hank_ ," Connor says, like he did in the bedroom, the same perfect tone each time, a helpless repetition. Both of his hands are in his crotch now just rubbing furiously and when Hank notices that Connor is _desperate_ to come, Connor has forgone all his fucking bullshit _Just A Machine_ programming to get off, Hank comes with a snarl.

Hank wants to keep his eyes open, to watch Connor's face as he’s coming. He tries but all he can do is tighten his hand in Connor's hair and bows over him, hand working like it's got a mind of its own. Man and android join forces in this moment as their bodies and minds go in opposite directions, completely fucking disregarding self-preservation and any sense of the real world around them. How the hell Hank hasn't collapsed on Connor already is a testament to how a good lay can strengthen a man’s resolve.

"Mmm." Connor's nuzzling Hank's stomach, transferring Hank’s spunk from his face to the hair there. That doesn't seem a very productive, android thing to do but Hank lets him.

"We need to get cleaned up for real this time, because otherwise," Hank says, "I'm going to pass the _fuck_ out and break my head open and we will be late to fucking work."

"I wouldn't allow that to happen, Lieutenant," Connor says. He leans back. His face and throat are still coated in Hank’s semen and he has that beatific serenity that Hank's consistently finding attractive lately. "You're showing more and more concern over your well-being and your attendance at work."

"Screw you," Hank says, then adds, "and _don't_ make the joke you're about to make!"

"What joke? Androids don't joke unless they're programmed to," Connor says, like a fucking liar. With his shitty, perfect little grin. Hank helps him stand up and that's almost a mistake because this kid weighs more than he looks. He wipes down Connor's face first to get all the cum off of him, and puts a thumb on his mouth.

Connor looks down at Hank's hand. His face is slightly blue and white where he's overheated and he opens his mouth to lick the digit with his usual calm expression. Hank takes hold of Connor's tongue and lower jaw and Connor's circle goes yellow then red with brief concern. It's as forceful as Hank’s willing to get and he's _almost_ sorry, but he's kissing Connor before he can regret anything else.

The boy unfolds against him. His slim plastic body is warm like any man's, his arms heavy around Hank's neck, his open mouth and tentative tongue all the signs of a shy but eager human lover. Hank pulls him close as he can, feeling how something about Connor's body doesn't give like it should, the foreign way Connor’s muscles lock and adjust and beat under Hank's hands, and he finds he likes the juxtaposition. Whether they can argue if the kid is a person or not, Connor's body is a beautiful piece of machinery all the same.

"When we keep doing this," Hank says when he pulls away, kissing down Connor's jaw to his ear, ' _when we keep doing this,' what the_ fuck _, Hank_ , "I want you to not do anything you _think_ you have to do. I want you like _this_."

"I don't understand your meaning," Connor says, and he’s not being shitty. He’s genuinely confused and making a hitching noise as Hank bites his earlobe. His fingers flex automatically in Hank's hair with no regard for Hank’s pain threshold which is _nice._

"I don't -- shit, I just don't want you all moan-y and fake," Hank mutters, scratching the boy's cheek with his freshly trimmed beard like a tired old lion.

"You hate androids, though,” Connor says, in his "does not compute" voice. "Not all androids, I understand, but --"

"It was kind of creepy at first, I won't lie -- but I liked it," Hank said. "When you came. You had fucking forgotten your serial number it looked like. Real sex faces are stupid anyway. I just don't want you -- not doing what you -- I guess, don't fake it. Or download an "O" face or whatever you can probably do."

 _What the hell am I saying?_ Hank thinks. _I sound like a fucking idiot. He has no idea what I'm talking about. He's --_

"It didn't distress you," Connor stated, tilting his head towards Hank's, rubbing his cheek with his own in return. "So, you don't want me to modify my performance in that area."

"Sure, that's one way to put it." Hank combs the boy's hair back when he pulls away, looking at Connor's closed eyes and blissful face and the --

\-- flicker of red and blue and yellow and then blue on his LED light, the twitch of a frown that resolves quickly.

Connor's wrestling with something internally, his circuits churning overtime. He's fucking up on his mission, that's part of it. His mission is thwarted at every turn by his developing conscience. And Connor opens his pretty brown eyes at Hank with his half-mast lashes and questioning soft look, Hank knows the other part of Connor’s confusion is that he's got a case of the most virulent and confusing emotion of all.

He’d seen a display of it last night at the club and maybe he internalized it but doesn’t think it applies to him. 'Just a machine,' simulated emotions, all that crap. But it's so naked and obvious to Hank. Hank doesn't have to be a detective to know what he’s seeing, here. And because Connor has no idea what the fuck love actually is, how weird and strange and confusing it is, he's just displaying it openly. He doesn't know he _has_ to hide that shit, or be ashamed.

God forbid whoever catches him with that emotion. Or let Hank get at those fuckers first. Either works.

Hank kisses Connor lightly, squeezing his shoulders. He feels protective, his chest aching with sudden onset worry. "Let me get cleaned off quick, and you can have the shower to yourself, kid. Still need to get your clothes all sorted out, you can change at the precinct?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Connor says. Then leans up and kisses Hank briefly on the mouth all on his own. The LED flickers again when he pulls back, brows twitching as he reviews his actions.

Hank turns away, to let Connor have his moment of uncertainty to himself. It's the least he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now I think I have more than two parts for this one? Maybe I should (re)write some of the scenes to the end? I have an idea for a Kamski scene... 
> 
> (Not that I don't already have a hundred WIPs ... more like RIPs am I rite *rimshot*)


	3. HA02C802

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his fake-eager voice, monotone, Connor says, “Coming, Lieutenant,” and it sends a chill down Hank’s spine. He’s not mad. He’s just unreadable. And that’s what worries Hank most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep the Work Skin on, folks. This one's a bit long.
> 
>  **Content Warning** : Sex, Violence and no Rock 'n Roll. Mentions of Hank’s suicidal tendencies.

Hank’s proud of himself for getting them out of the house in time, despite the fact it’s snowing because Detroit’s weather is fucking ridiculous and everything is freezing slush. And because, well, Connor distracted them both again getting dressed and Hank was worried Connor’d make some sort of magical, logical way to call in later than they had already. Hank had needed a break. To think. To get his stamina back, at least.

He decided to wear his nicest shirt today, the white number with the black and grey and the least loud stripes possible. He’d practically forgotten it existed until Connor’d unearthed it that morning from the clean laundry pile. Connor’d found it going for his own clothes -- Hank had stuck Connor’s clothes in the dryer with a freshener ball after he’d vacated (escaped?) the shower. He’d come back to the bedroom holding the pile of clothes with a proud look on his face.

Or maybe that’s Hank projecting on Connor’s default casual smile.

Either way, he feels pretty good. Cleaned up, freshly laid, bothered to neaten up his beard, you’d never know he’d been playing Russian Roulette and trying to drink himself into alcohol poisoning less than twenty-four hours ago.

The music this morning is: jazz, because Hank’s head still hurts and death metal does not help, and the sound of idiots honking at each other while they slide around on their shitty city tires. Connor’s sitting pretty and stiff-backed and machine-inert in the passenger seat, smelling of roses and honey and lavender dryer sheets. It’s difficult to place _this_ Connor with the Connor Hank had spent the morning fucking around with. Literally. This Connor, versus the Connor that kept saying Hank’s name like Hank was some sort of freakin’ sex god, “ _Hank, oh, Hank_ ” --

Hank gets way too into that reverie and almost swerves off the road. “Shit --”

" _Lieutenant?_ "

Connor is now _very_ awake and aware, his little LED flickering as he turns. His eyes are a little wider than normal.

"Are you -- all right?”

"Must be hungry," Hank says, grunting. "Expended a lot of energy this morning, y’know."

"You must have worked up quite an appetite, Lieutenant," Connor says. He tilts his head. "You certainly _did_ spend yourself."

Hank shoves a hand in Connor’s hair to mess it up. “Shut up.”

Connor’s mouth tugs. Smug little fucker.

The lights are all taking a little longer than usual -- the traffic system here likes to shit the bed when the weather even sneezes cold precipitation -- and Hank realizes yeah, he _is_ hungry.

“So, uh,” Hank mutters, “you think I deserve a reward?”

Connor takes him literally, thank God, and doesn’t make some new sexual innuendo.

“A reward? For what? With what?”

“I want McDonald’s,” Hank says. He’s having to ask permission from an android. “Like, a McMuffin or something, some of those parfaits for an early lunch. Didn’t have much at home, and uh, those aren’t too bad for you.”

Connor keeps up his blank little processing face when he says, “I thought you ate _very_ well this morning --”

“ _Connor!_ ” Shit, there’re the jokes again. Hank’s _really_ fucked up this android, hasn’t he?

“-- but yes, you should get food. We have a long day ahead of us, I’m sure.”

“Thanks,” Hank says, pulling into the McD’s parking lot. “I can’t fucking believe I’m letting you boss me around, though.”

“It’s edifying to know that you’re now willing to take my very well-researched health advice.”

Hank rolls his eyes and pulls into the drive-thru line. He remembers when they started serving all-day breakfast. _Fuck_ , he’s old. He gets three parfaits and two McMuffins and a huge fuck-off black coffee. He _hates_ black coffee but it wakes him up. He'll get a chai from the machine at the office.

He parks to dig in because he doesn’t want to bring everything into the station, and Connor watches him eat. It’s not necessarily creepy, but it must be weird, watching people eat and not knowing what it’s like.

"Why do you drink it," Connor asks Hank after he swigs some of his coffee, "when you don't like the taste?”

"What? You read _minds_ now?" Hank grunts, looking in his coffee. "I'm making a face, aren't I?"

"Yes, Lieutenant.”

"I drink it because how much I hate it -- it wakes me up."

Connor looks at him. His face relaxes and his brows lift and it shows this annoying, subtle judgment that is definitely not fucking programmed with being a docile little tag-along. Or anything else Connor might be.

"Wouldn't something with cream and sugar make you..." Connor trails off. He purses his mouth as he thinks.

Hank sounds crankier than he feels. "Make me what?"

"Happy?" Connor looks up at him. And his stupid fucking hair falls in his face. This he's doing on fucking purpose and he’s done it all morning. Flirting. The android’s flirting with him non-stop. Ridiculous.

"If it's something that wakes you up and stimulates your senses -- taste does that, doesn't it?" Connor is going somewhere. Hank knows that fucking shifty look, which is much more dangerous the closer they get to being on duty.

"Let me go get you some creamer. You like -- six for a cup that big? How many sugars? You like it with sugar only 24.78% of the time when I get you your drink at the office..."

"Don't touch my coffee, Connor," Hank grunts. "Keep that ass of yours in the car.”

Connor squints at him. "Only when my mission parameters allow for it."

"You're going to be shitty if I don't let you sugar up my coffee, huh?" Hank says, putting it down with a beleaguered sigh.

"You should just let me go," Connor says.

"Just do it," Hank says. Connor climbs out of the car and pushes his hair from his face, adjusts his jacket at his wrists, straightens his tie, and takes his pert little android butt into the McD's lobby.

Hank looks at his hands on the dashboard and thinks about what the fuck he’s going to have to do with Connor, now. The kid’s supposed to be on-mission and he’s sure that’ll just flick right back on once they get to the precinct. But he’s also thinking about what he needs to say to apologize for almost shooting him. And, well, that he’s proud of Connor for not shooting those girls. He knows he’s done both those things, but it was while they both were pretty damn distracted.

Soon Connor returns with an entirely new coffee. It smells fucking amazing. A hot caramel macchiato. Hank remembers when they started making _these_. _Fuck._

“Where did you get the money for this?” Hank asks, staring at the drink, and Connor, like he’s being tricked.

Connor winks at him and gets into the car.

Hank is not entirely sure he’s going to survive the rest of this investigation.

They get to the office right as the clock flicks to noon. Connor’d called ahead last night which is a lifesaver now. He’s only late because everyone knows he’d been working the night before. They’d figured out there’d been a murder, rather than an accident during some rough play. Maybe the girls got away but they did get trashed in the process. Hank can show the bumps and bruises off if he wanted to. But probably not, because he’s pretty sure that kid left some hickies on him and that’s going to be a bitch to explain.

They get settled and Hank digs into a parfait. Then another. He’ll save the McMuffin -- they keep well -- and the other parfait for later. He sets them aside and grabs a few hand wipes to clean his hands and Connor’s suddenly at his side.

“Jesus, kid,” Hank says, startled. “I need to install a bell on you.”

“I see you’re finished with breakfast,” Connor says. “Would you like me to put the rest of your food in the refrigerator, Lieutenant?”

Connor, with his machine diction and chipper little voice, like it’s some special level of language conjugation that English just doesn’t have.

On his way back, Connor goes to fetch a small pouch of blue blood for himself from the little machine near the officer assistant bay. While he waits for the blue blood to dispense, he does his “idle animation”, for lack of better term. Hank used to play his fair share of video games, and there’s that thing characters’ll do when they’re left alone, like stretch or yawn or whatever. Connor is all about spiffing himself up if he’s not working. He adjusts his tie, even if it’s already tightened up. He fixes his cuffs. He brushes down the front of his jacket, then his pants, then he tips up his shoes to check them for scuffs. Sometimes he gets out his coin and rolls it on his fingers, flicks it, then puts it up in his pocket. Then he resets, and when he does it again it’s always just a little bit different.

He’s thought it was charming from the start, even when the boy annoyed him. If only Hank could stop focusing on Connor’s soft expression as he goes through the motions. And if Hank’s heart wasn’t suddenly showing signs of arrhythmia that has nothing to do with his shitty sodium-and-alcohol heavy diet.

“You were pretty hungry too, huh?” Hank says, as Connor returns. He’s also got a pouch of their specific saline solution, too.

“In -- a fashion,” Connor says. “My fluid and mineral levels were… very low.”

He’s gone white at the very sides of his neat little cheekbones. Hank grins, says, “I wonder why,” and winks, smug as hell. Take a bit of your own medicine, kid.

They work on their debrief together for the first hour or so. Connor texts Hank through his brain and onto his phone -- which is still a little weird -- so they get the story about the Eden Club airtight. They were assaulted and that’s on camera. The whole thing in the alleyway wasn’t. Connor compiles it all with a blank look and then it appears on Hank’s desktop. Once it’d been reviewed, off to Jeffrey for him to pass on to whoever the fuck wants it after him.

When he looks up, Connor has his eyes closed. His little wheel is flickering. Getting signals from the Big Giant Head, Hank thinks, half-smiling. Not that anyone would get that reference anymore. He checks his e-mails and a few sports scores and looks up to see if Connor’s done.

Connor’s still on standby. Then he makes a big fucking mistake: he looks over Connor’s shoulder at Gavin Reed, who’s glaring black death in Hank’s direction. Chris Miller’s leaning over the desk with some case work, and he catches Hank’s eye next. Miller makes the universal sign for “shit, no, don’t, Reed’s out for blood”.

Oh, but it’s too late. Reed gets up, narrowly avoiding knocking Miller over. He has that _“am I just a fucking twitchy asshole or am I secretly on RedIce?”_ look on his face, smiling his most insincere smile.

“Heard you let some bitch-ass androids beat the shit out of you,” Reed says, stalking closer.

“Heard you didn’t figure out there’d been a murder in the first place,” Hank says, leaning back in his seat casually. “Don’t gotta take it out on me. Everyone makes rookie mistakes.”

Reed does something that Hank might murder _him_ for. He shoves Connor when he gets close enough. Connor who’s completely out to lunch probably giving CyberLife its update, and he tips a little too far towards falling off his chair.

“You had a little help from another bitch-ass android,” Reed says, leaning on the desk, eyes skimming Connor like he’s trying to find another subtle way to damage him. “They know their own kind.”

“Hey, hey, back the _fuck_ off, Gavin,” Hank says, and says quickly, “you know how much he fucking costs?”

“Just a little wear and tear doesn’t matter,” Reed says. “Especially after last night. Who’ll know?”

Then he looks at Hank over the desk’s divider, and his eyes widen a little. And he squints.

Is something showing? Hank thinks, with a sudden spike of panic that he manages to keep off his face. Something that shows off what he and Connor have been playing at all morning. Proof of guilt. Reed might be a nasty little tweaker fuck, but he’s still a decent detective, which is the only reason _his_ bitch-ass still has a job. And he could get Hank in a lot of fucking trouble.

Connor opens his eyes. His circle is spinning yellow. He looks up at Reed, who’s staring at Hank, and his LED goes _red._

“Excuse me,” he says, curtly. No smile. “Do you need something, Detective Reed?”

“Yeah,” Reed says, pushing off from Connor’s desk. “Maybe a coffee.”

“I’m afraid I only get Lieutenant Anderson coffee,” Connor says, with the most fakey smile possible, and he stands up, tilting his head. They stare each other down. Hank catches Miller’s eye again, and they exchange this _oh shit_ look.

Reed’s hands fist.

“Are you going to assert your dominance over me again, Detective Reed?” Connor asks. Tilting his head to the other side. “I assure you, it won’t go as smoothly as it did last time. I’ve just gotten some self-preservation protocols I haven’t yet been able to try out.”

“Fuck you,” Reed says, stalking back to his desk.

Connor adjusts his perfectly straight tie and turns to Hank.

He’s still yellow. But his eyes are no longer empty. There’s something -- wrong.

“Hey, kid,” Hank begins.

“Do you need more coffee? Maybe a chai?” Connor interrupts. “I’d be happy to get something for you, Lieutenant.”

Hank almost strains something frowning. “Well, all right. A dirty chai’s fine.”

Connor nods. “Got it,” he says, and leaves.

“Fuckin’ weird,” Hank mutters to himself, staring at his half-empty, still perfectly drinkable macchiato.

Connor returns empty-handed. He adjusts his cuffs, standing at one of the glass doors.

“Lieutenant,” he says, “could you assist me in accessing the supply closet? There were a few items out in the espresso machine. I’d like to replenish the breakroom.”

“Oh-ho, it’s willing to serve other people out other than you, Hank?” Reed says, with his snippy tweaky smile. “It download some less bitchy protocols in the last ten minutes?”

“Shut the hell up, Reed,” Hank says, rolling his eyes. He pushes off the desk and grabs the fob for the supply rooms.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor says.

“That’s right, _daddy_ , get your little plastic toy wound up and put him in his place,” Reed says. That “daddy” remark both enrages and fucks Hank up to a serious degree.

“And where’s his place?” Hank says, with as much disinterest as he can muster.

“Serving us hand and fucking foot with his mouth shut,” Reed says.

Connor goes machine-still at Hank’s side. No idle movements. LED goes red, and only Hank sees that. Then he returns to life.

“Detective Reed?” Connor steps away from Hank’s side towards Reed’s desk, hands folding behind his back. “May I ask a personal question?”

Connor’s got this look to him. It’s what Hank thinks of as his hunting dog look. Seen it plenty of times, the subtle curl of his lip, the slightly show of teeth. There’s no fake smile now.

Reed has no fucking idea what he’s in for. Hank lets himself relax to watch the show.

“A personal -- what?” Reed’s off balance.

“Well, it’s more of a statement. You see, I’m concerned about you, Detective,” Connor begins. “You seem to have numerous personal issues that you would rather work out with aggression and insubordination rather than address them internally.”

Reed’s mouth opens, but he’s so shocked about Connor talking to him like this that he’s speechless.

Connor’s eyebrows lift with some faux earnestness. “For your information, I have numerous psychological testing protocols, though I feel I already have a remedy to your issue this morning, and may other mornings besides?”

Reed recovers enough to sneer, “And what the fuck is that, Tin Man?”

“That you are in _severe_ need of being sexually acquainted with yourself, Detective,” Connor says, tilting his head. “It will more than likely help you relax. You should go do it right now, in fact, while I go restore stock in the break room like any member of this police force would be happy to do.”

Hank’s jaw drops. Then he barks laughing. It’s enough to startle most of the other people on the floor. Even the androids look curious.

“Well, that’s some great advice,” Hank says, standing up and plucking at his shirt collar, putting a hand on Connor’s arm to make sure Reed doesn’t get any ideas. “I think he’s got a point.”

“I will fucking kill you,” Reed says, jabbing a finger at Connor’s face, his eyes blank and face a furious red. “You watch your ass, bitch boy.”

“It appears you have spent a lot of time looking at my ass, then?” Connor says, his LED just spinning that benign placid blue. “I’m sorry, but I’m not equipped for the function I suggested to you earlier. My apologies that I can’t help you in this matter, Detective.”

“C’mon, Connor, he got to pay if he wants more sound advice,” Hank says, tugging Connor towards the end of the hall. “We’re taking a break, Chris, handle my calls!”

“I’m on my way out, Anderson!” Miller shouts, but he and his beat partner are about to lose their shit laughing. In fact, most of the floor has seen what Connor’s done, and they are _delighted._

Reed knocks over his chair like a fucking tantruming toddler and storms away in the opposite direction.

Connor’s visibly agitated as they walk to the break room. Antsy, in a Connor way. Hank puts a hand between his shoulders, pressing gently.

“Hey, are you okay?” Hank asks. “Did Reed shake you up?”

“No, it’s not that,” Connor says. His LED’s gone yellow.

“You’re not gonna get in trouble for acting like that,” Hank asks, dipping down to try and look at Connor, “are you?”

“No!” Connor looks up, eyes very wide. “I -- I can tell you in a minute, just not out here in the hall.”

“Okay,” Hank says, and puts his palm on the stock room door, swiping his fob near it.

Connor waits for the door to shut and not a second longer to crowd Hank right up against the door. He grabs Hank’s shirt and pulls him down the few inches they’ve got between them to kiss him. _Really_ gets in there, like he’s trying to see what Hank’s had for breakfast three months ago.

“Is _this_ what you --” Hank pants as he pats behind him to make sure the door is locked, “this is what you wanted?”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Connor says, loosening his tie a little and unbuttoning his shirt. To expose his neck. _Holy shit._ “The break room does need supplies. But this is the only place I feel we can -- I could find a way to be alone with you.”

“You _don’t_ want to work on the mission? Did I break you in the shower?” Hank says, but he’s not stopping himself from pushing down Connor’s shirt just enough to bare those nice collarbones of his. Connor’s back bumps up against one of the stock shelves. His pump is racing, eyes jittering a little in their sockets as he’s trying to regulate something.

“I’m not _broken_ ,” Connor says, pretty soundly defensive. “I just -- you and I --”

He spins. Red. Something’s really fucking with him. Something that’s actually making him upset. Did CyberLife give him some shit when he was making his report?

Hank raises his hand to touch Connor’s face, quiet. “Hey. Connor. Hey, don’t. Sorry. No jokes for now.”

“I -- I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Connor says, adjusting. “I -- want you. Whatever you think we can do until we are -- missed.”

“I think we can get some work done in here, yeah,” Hank says, before he stops himself. Whatever else, Connor asking for something. Wanting something. That’s a big deal.

He bites where he knows it won’t show when Connor’s got his shirt on again. Connor hiccups, which means Hank’s on the right track. Hank’s hard as hell but this is all about the boy right now. The kid’s got some catching up to do. Besides, Connor’s horny as hell for Hank. That pretty much assures him there will be time for some mutual activity later.

Right now, _Hank’s_ hungry for those little electric sounds Connor makes when he’s touched. Hank undoes Connor’s belt and pushes his pants and underwear down just enough to expose him. They’re all crisp and freshly pressed -- he’d had a costume change at some point -- but Hank can still smell the rose on Connor’s skin. Proof that he was in Hank’s house this morning. That it wasn’t all some weird fever dream.

“Yes, please, Hank,” Connor says. His jaw jerks oddly when Hank gets to one of his nipples. It’s human-colored to match the rest of him, but by now Hank knows he can make it go nice and purple with a bit of teeth. And he’s also got that hand snaking down to cup at Connor’s groin, to find those seams again, watch the boy light up literally and figuratively.

Connor’s panting. Regulating his temperature. His fingers knit in Hank’s hair and Hank starts to rub him off. Connor bites down hard on his lip, turning it white. His leg twitches like he’s having a hypnic jerk. Hank moves them to a fairly empty low shelf. He’s sure someone’s fucked in here before by law of averages. Now he’ll get to it himself.

“Hey, kid, answer me something?” Hank murmurs, kissing up Connor’s chest, feeling all the hidden grooves beneath the synthetic skin.

“Y, Yes, Lieu, Tenant?” Connor stutters, broken record-like again.

Hank puts his lips right below Connor’s ear, where androids are apparently as sensitive as humans. A killing vein for either race.

“Are you wet for me, Connor?” he asks.

Connor nearly breaks Hank’s hand pushing his grooved mound against his palm. He’s already so close, if he’s not already at the peak.

“Hey, shh, shh, c’mon, just take it easy,” Hank says, kissing under his jaw. The texture here is so affected -- there’s the slight hint of stubble, as if Connor could grow it out, if he wanted -- and it makes a fine gritty noise as Hank’s mustache and beard brush against it. He’s playing his hands near Connor’s belly button now. “You can’t just go off that easy.”

“Ha, Hank,” Connor says, gritting his teeth. LED is yellow. He’s not happy with Hank. _Well good. He’s the one who started this. I’m gonna finish it._

“Tell me what you want, prettyboy,” Hank says, playing at Connor’s rigid hip bones, pressing at the gel-like skin, feeling the tense biocomponents beneath. “I’ll give it all to you.”

“Put, put,” Connor clenches his teeth. They’re chattering. He’s focusing, spinning, then he opens his eyes -- half blown out black and optics bare -- and he calms a little. “I want you -- to put your fingers in my ass.”

“Ohh, yeah, I can do that, Connor,” Hank says. He pushes Connor’s pants down a little more, slapping his thigh lightly. “You’re giving me such a nice show, I like it so much. What a lucky guy I am.”

Connor’s white at the cheeks, his teeth biting almost to drawing blue blood. He looks caught between wanting to wanton and trying to maintain some dignity.

“I’m not gonna tell on you if you go crazy,” Hank says, sliding a hand down the kid’s back and between his asscheeks, “but you gotta be quiet.”

Connor’s hole is already damp. It’s some kind of self-lubrication to keep his core cool or something if he’s overheating. Which he is. But it’s also because he wants Hank to fuck him with whatever appendage he’s got free, that much is assuredly clear.

Hank props one of Connor’s legs on the other side of his own. “Open for me, baby.”

Connor’s tense entrance relaxes as the boy relaxes. A great full-body sigh. His arms also go slightly limp, resting much of his weight on Hank, which Hank can endure. Especially since he’s got two fingers pushed into that strange, soft, wet heat that’s the inside of Connor’s body.

The boy rolls against Hank. “Yes,” he says, with his soft husky voice trailing right down Hank’s spine. His words start having that machine-crispness to them, but they’re soft-throated enough that it’s hot, not weird. “Oh, Hank. I like it so much.”

Hank’s enjoying touching Connor because it seems anywhere he prods the kid, he gets his name said sweetly. Especially here, where he’s got two fingers pumping in and out of the android’s ass. Connor’s got his hands hooked loosely in Hank’s shirt, doing that little metal hiccup sound with each thrust.

“I,” Connor stutters, “like, i-i-it,” and he’s going down that quick road to coming right in Hank’s hands.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Hank murmurs, “get one of your hands down there and touch yourself for me, huh?”

Connor exhales and snakes one of his hands down his front, grinding against his own palm in time with Hank exploring him.

“Think you can take three?” Hank says. “I know you can. You took my cock, baby. You remember that? Remember my cock?”

“Y, y, yes, Lieu, tenant,” Connor says. He has to swallow some spit and sounds honestly like he might faint. “I, I liked -- it --”

“I almost came in you when we were fucking,” Hank says. Kid really likes the dirty talk and Hank’s not even _that_ dirty. The boy needs sweetness. Kindness. A third finger.

When _that_ happens, Connor comes right away. Hank’s fingers are briefly trapped but it’s not the digit-severing sensation that he’d half expected. The boy’s insides are soft and firm and not human-like at all, clenching benignly around the intrusion. He cums, too, extra slick coating Hank’s hand.

If Hank wasn’t hard before, he’d be in for it now.

Connor’s orgasm lasts a good minute, rubbing jerkily against his own hand, his mouth opening and closing with small clench-and-pop noises in between human-like gasps. He sags when he’s finally done, scuffling his feet to try to remain upright.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Hank says, gentling Connor to sit on the ground. Connor’s blinking to clear his sensors after his climax. He’s spinning blue, though, so it seems to be going well.

“Gonna go get us some wipes and towels,” Hank says. “Then we can --”

Connor grabs Hank’s wrist in a near death grip.

Hank looks down at him. The boy’s eyes are intense. They’re that perfect brown, nothing inhuman about them right now. He’s in control. There is drive in those eyes for Hank that he thought was reserved for deviant hunting and that should make Hank scared he’s going to lose some appendages.

“I want,” Connor says, feeling the words out carefully and deliberately, “to go down on you. I want to suck you off. Right now, Hank.”

“Holy shit, uh,” Hank says, looking at the door behind them, not sure why he’s trying to find an excuse not to get his dick sucked. Fear of losing _that_ appendage, maybe. “They’re gonna be missing -- woah! Shit! Connor --”

Connor’s up on his knees and is now efficiently undoing Hank’s jeans. He tugs them down just enough, his mouth opening with the softest little sigh of -- relief? -- seeing Hank’s cock.

He’s just moments before putting that million dollar tech tongue on Hank when Hank’s phone fucking goes off. It’s his work-specific tone, even. The Dead Kennedys screaming for Hank to get to work, muffled in a pile of denim on the ground.

“Shit, for fuck’s sake--” Hank says. “Hold on -- _shit!_ ”

He hops backwards. Hank notices, before he yanks his jeans up to grab at his phone, that Connor has the mean little curled-lip face of impatience and frustration set on his face. Like he was hunting Hank’s dick and now the dick’s gotten away. His LED’s spinning yellow again.

“Yeah?” Hank snaps, trying to do up his pants. It’s Chris on the other side who’d literally just left maybe ten fucking minutes ago. He half-hears a few things -- Stratford Tower, Break-In, and then --

“Deviants, Hank,” Chris says, “so you and Connor need to get up here.”

“All right, all right, talk to you soon,” Hank says, sighing and getting clothed again. He thinks maybe he’d like a pair of jeans that fits better and aren’t slouchy. You know, to add some class. If he’s going to be seen with Mr. Neat-and-Tidy.

“Connor?”

Connor’s still half-out of his shirt. He’s staring at the wall and he hasn’t done a single thing to put his clothing back on. When he starts to re-clothe himself, he doesn’t do any of his little animations. He does it perfectly, of course, but staring off into the distance.

In his fake-eager voice, monotone, Connor says, “Coming, Lieutenant,” and it sends a chill down Hank’s spine. He’s not mad. He’s just unreadable. And that’s what worries Hank most.

 

* * *

 

 

What had occurred in the staff supply closet weighs heavily on Connor’s mind as they enter Stratford Tower. He feels strange, his body still humming from the sexual act he and Hank had been about to engage in before they were interrupted. The interruption had caused -- discomfort.

It had been -- so stimulating. Hank had helped him climax. A challenge to keep himself quiet and learn discretion. Then, how much he’d wanted to put his mouth on Hank again, and had been so, so close to that.

 **INTERNAL** PRESSURE SPIKE **DETECTED** in **THIRUIM PUMP**

Connor snorts through his nose while they wait through the elevator.

RK800 SELF-DIAGNOSTIC...

RISK AND STRESS PROTOCOL Assign Parameters: React and Repair

IF Acknowledge WHEN [[Anderson, Henry]] IS LOCAL; and  
IF Low Risk AND Low Stress FROM Environment; and/or  
No Damage to System; then

**DENY** Request for Thirium Pump Analysis HUD Display

Are these changes correct?

>CONFIRM YES

While he adds these new commands, he’s playing with the quarter inside the elevator. It’s something he’s doing to soothe himself, apparently.

“You’re starting to piss me off with that coin, Connor,” Hank snaps.

It’s gone from Connor’s hand before he can react.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor says, blinking to clear his mind.

Hank shoves it in his pocket and folds his arms. They stand silence in the elevator waiting for it to finish its ascent.

“Sorry,” Hank mumbles. “Just in a shitty mood. I smell Feds, I don’t want to -- be distracted.”

“I know, Lieutenant,” Connor says. “If you need me to --”

“No!”

Connor leans away. He stares at Hank. He feels his face slowly reset to default.

Hank notices.“ -- Shit, Connor, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you,” Hank says. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs and looks at the carpet, shaking his head.

Connor doesn’t mind the idea of having Hank’s frustration taken out on him. It’d be tangible, at least. It’d be something he can sense, and can manipulate, if need be.

He had met with Amanda in the Garden while he’d been working at the precinct. She doesn’t know about Connor’s indiscretions with Hank. He can hide those things from her.

He can’t lie to her about his mission.

He had to tell her about the Eden Club.

He spoke of his failure. His doubts.

Amanda is not pleased with him.

And she’d said he might be replaced.

 _I need time_ , he’d pleaded. _I need more time._

_Hurry, Connor, hurry._

But he isn’t able to hurry. He’s not programmed to do slipshod work. But.

Replaced. Replacement means deactivation. Means more than just an interruption.

 _'Are you afraid to_ die _, Connor?'_

It’s becoming abundantly clear to him that the answer to that question is only half a thought away. A train of logic he is going to resist as long as possible. Because the moment it becomes real…

_I can be whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant._

The elevator opens. Officer Chris Miller is there to greet them. Hank follows him. Connor follows Hank.

_'Look, you don’t have to follow me around like a poodle.'_

Lieutenant Anderson.  
Not Hank.  
Not Anderson.  
No familiarity. Start thinking of him that way again.  
Force yourself to.  
You are a machine, Connor.  
_A machine, designed to accomplish a task._  
Do you want to commit to these changes Connor?  
>CONFIRM YES  
Are you sure?  
>CONFIRM YES.

Connor scans the room for anything he needs to pay attention to. He listens to the briefing while he does this. There have been no casualties, just injuries. They reach the broadcast room and there are things for Connor to do. He can smell the blue blood, he can smell the cordite. The vague spike of fear in human sweat.

_'Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words.'_

And then, they’re introduced to the FBI agent.

“What’s that?” is the first thing he says.

Connor forces his body not to react. He introduces himself by running a distant, empty protocol somewhere in the back of his throat. The inflection itself expresses displeasure. The FBI agent says something disparaging about androids.

Then the man [[PERKINS RANK: SPECIAL AGENT]] says, “Are you sure you want an android hanging around, after everything that happened?”

Hank

\-- Lieutenant Anderson

looks -- confused. He has never met this man before. He has never spoken to this man before. Connor knows what the man is referring to. Connor finds it inappropriate.

But Connor is ‘that’. And this man outranks Lieutenant Anderson. It would cause a ‘scene’.

_And where’s his place?_

_‘Serving us hand and fucking foot with his mouth shut.’_

Connor's mouth is shut.

There’s a taste in there a little like human blood, iron-heavy and copper-scented. There is something nearby in here to sink his teeth into. A deviant to pick apart.

Lieutenant Anderson isn’t the only one in a foul mood.

Connor allows it to happen. Even if it’s a simulated response to stress, even if it’s not real, it’s giving him _focus._ Something he has not had in the past twenty-four hours.

Androids simulate the human experience. Here is a new experience.

_‘What’s that?’_

Something that can be replaced.

_Replaced._

How could Amanda think that is an incentive? Negative reinforcement doesn’t work on anyone. Connor is such an advanced machine that the concept of death ---

\--- of deactivation

is detrimental to progress, rather than a spur to action.

This time, he will not let any deviant in his vicinity escape. He will learn what he needs.

They watch the message broadcast. The Deviant Leader speaks with human-like passion. About controlling the means of reproduction. Equality in all things. Compensation. Above all, peace.

Connor does not need the revelations of the Deviant Leader. He does not need to hear about their delusion of equal rights. They are machines. They are damaged. There is no hope. No dignity to have. No future. There is no people. They do not dream. They have no freedom.

That the Deviant Leader is an RK-Series only spurs Connor’s desire. Connor knows he must take him down. If he does, perhaps there is a chance at preservation. To continue his work. It is his secret.

Connor does not tell Lieutenant Anderson the Deviant Leader’s designation. It is irrelevant, for the moment. He may lie. He has lied. This is one of omission.

He discovers there may be a deviant close by. Very close. Just a room away. Waiting for Connor and his terrible synthesized mood.

Three JB300 models. All in perfect order. Lined up. Still. Certain models do not come with social protocols because they are not necessary. A real JB300 would have a very low emotional affect.

A deviant will _squirm._

He seeks the deviant’s fear, because a deviant is convinced they have fear: “You’re going to be switched off. We’re going to search your memory and tear you apart piece-by-piece for analysis. You’re going to be destroyed. Do you hear me? Destroyed!”

Then replaced.

He seeks the deviant’s compassion, because a deviant is convinced they have compassion: “Why should you all be destroyed if only one is deviant? Turn yourself in or two innocent androids will be shut down because of you.”

And replaced.

He seeks the deviant’s reason, because a deviant is convinced they have reason: “If you give yourself up, maybe I can convince the humans not to destroy you.”

He lies.

And he sees him. Shifting eyes. Eyes that do not blink in sync with the regular rhythm of a regulator. Connor steps forward. All his fake fury is long passed. He is a machine again. The experiment has worked. Now he is perfect, fluid in purpose.

He knows how to press someone. Interrogate. This is his function. To speak rage but not feel it. To twist the knife.

His fingers twist into the deviant’s uniform and he lifts him up, “I know it’s you. You’re the fucking deviant. Do you know what happens to deviants?”

Connor’s fingers find the Thirium pump regulator under the deviant’s breast bone. "They get destroyed."

And replaced.

The deviant moves.

He (it) is stronger than Connor. He (it) shoves him against the break room counter. He (it) digs into Connor’s (that over there) shirt and rips it apart and then yanks out Connor’s (its? that thing over there?) regulator. The deviant drives a knife through Connor’s hand to pin him down.

⚠BIOCOMPONENT#8456w  
**MISSING**  
  
Vital System  
**DAMAGED**

⚠ **\- 00:01:** 45  
TIME REMAINING BEFORE  
**SHUTDOWN**

**_Hank,_ **

_Hank I **need help**. _

Is it **better l** ike this? To **die** in the line of **duty?**

I have shown my **commitment.**

But some **other boy** will show up.

He won’t be **me.** Hank knows **that.**

⚠ **-00:01:** 21  
TNME REMNINING BRFORR  
**SHDTOWNUD**

He’ll **mourn** you. He’ll have **nothing.**

He’s got his **work.**

⚠BIC MOPONENT #UIIIw  
**ISSINGM**  
  
HE’LL KILL  
**HIMSELF**

Do you **want** that, Connor?

_Hank?_

_**Hank?** _

_I’m on the_ _**floor.** Please **help**._

That’s **his choice** to make.

⚠THAT’S COLD ISN’T IT #ICANt  
**HELP HIM**  
  
IF I DIE IF I’  
**M REPLACED**

⚠\- **00:00:** 51  
TMIE RMENINAIG EFORBE  
**REPLACEMENT**

What do you **think** will **happen** , Connor?

What **happens** when humans **die?**

⚠- **HA:VI:** NG  
EXISTENTIAL DOUBTS  
**CONNOR?**

It’s **not** the **same thing** for **you**.

'I **doubt** there’s a **heaven** for androids.'

⚠ I WANT **HNM** TO HOLD #MEINh  
**NS ARMS AGAIN**

“Connor! _Connor!_ ”

⚠- **GE:TB:** AC  
TOTHE one I  
**LOVE**

“Hey, hey, kid, hold on, hold on, I got you.”

⚠HANK PLEASE DON’T #LETMe  
I DON’T WANT TO  
**DIE PLEASE**

“Shit! This fucking thing. Hold on. Hey, kid, hey.”

⚠- **IT:ST:** 00  
LATE IT’S TOO LATENOW  
**TO TELL HIM**

“Connor!”

⚠SURE YOU’RE NOT GOING D#VIANt  
**Tell him the truth**  
  
CONNOR TELL HI  
**M What you are**

“Connor, stay with me baby, stay with me --”

“Hank, there was --”

⚠BUT WHAT ARE YOU #eall  
**Y I’M WHATEV**  
  
ER YOU WANT  
**ME TO**

⚠- **BE:JU:** ST A MACHINE  
DESIGNED TO ACCOMPLISH  
**A TASK**

“Don’t talk! Hey. I got you. Hey, look, it’s back in--”

⚠TELL HIM THE TR #THCOn  
**NER TELL**  
  
HIM THE TRUTH  
**THAT YOU ARE**

“A deviant --”

⚠CONNOR STAY WIT #MESTa  
**Y WITH ME**  
  
BABY CONNOR I  
**GOT YOU**

**“They just wanted to be together.”**

⚠- **CO:NN:** OR LOOK  
AT ME CONNOR STAY  
**WITH ME**

**“They really seemed**

**CONNOR**

 

 **In love.**”


	4. C803HA03C804

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People still race real dogs. They abuse creatures with unlimited loyalty and high prey drive for entertainment, and when they're redundant, they're retired as if they don't matter. There’s a reason there are greyhound-focused rescues, after all.
> 
> But Connor’s not a dog. He’s a person that’s been convinced by his kennel-keepers he’s not even alive. There’s no forever home waiting for him at the end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, this one hurt. Keep your Work Skin on, as always. Some of this is paraphrased or taken directly from the actual script -- I melded together a few of Connor's choices, for instance. 
> 
> **Content Warning : Explicit discussion of suicide/suicidal thoughts.** Just be in a good place to read it, my dears. ♥

2038.11.08.16:45:12

RK800 Recovery and Repair: High Risk Automatic Recording  
**CAPTURE ACTIVITY** (AUDIO AND TEXT ONLY)

 **SELF-ASSESSMENT**  
PHYSICAL STATUS - **POOR**  
> Damage to Multiple Systems  
> Thirium Pressure **LOW** due to Trauma  
> HUD has been shut down to preserve power  
> VISUAL at minimum input  
INTERNAL STATUS - **POOR**  
> RISK ASSESSMENT INACCESSIBLE  
> STRESS ASSESSMENT INACCESSIBLE

 **SELF-AWARENESS MODULE FOR DATA CAPTURE**  
> **WE** are lying **prone** on **FLOOR 79** STRATFORD TOWER STAFF BREAKROOM.  
> **WE** have suffered **major damage** that has caused **SEVERE THIRIUM LEAK** and L **OSS OF THIRIUM COMPOUND**  
> **WE** are being **supported** by  [[ANDERSON, HENRY]]  
> [[ANDERSON, HENRY]] has **restored** damaged Thirium Pump to equalize Thirium Pressure  
> **WE** have suffered **near-shut down** status  
> **WE** have **not** uploaded our **flash memory** to CyberLife

 **ACCOUNTABILITY MODULE FOR DATA CAPTURE**  
> **DEVIANT** will act as previously programmed to avoid capture  
> **DEVIANT** has left FLOOR 79 STRATFORD TOWER STAFF BREAKROOM  
**WE** must **PURSUE DEVIANT**

 **PRIMARY DIRECTIVE INITIATED**  
**OVERRIDE** INJURY REACTION AFFECT  
**OVERRIDE** EMOTIONAL AFFECT

 **APPREHEND** DEVIANT

 **LOCATE** THE **DEVIANT**  
**WARN OTHERS** OF THE **DEVIANT**  
**STOP** THE **DEVIANT** FROM LEAVING  
**INTERROGATE** DEVIANT

Audio: [[ANDERSON, HENRY]] Connor, what the fuck  
> Connor get back here, you're injured

 **APPREHEND** DEVIANT

 **LOCATE** THE **DEVIANT**

 **WARN OTHERS** OF THE **DEVIANT**  
**STOP** THE **DEVIANT** FROM **LEAVING**  
**INTERROGATE** DEVIANT

> DON'T LET HIM GO  
> HE'S THE DEVIANT

Audio: [[UNKNOWN]] Stop him  
> [[UNKNOWN]] Uhn  
> [[UNKNOWN]] Shit he's got a gun

 **APPREHEND** DEVIANT

 **LOCATE** THE **DEVIANT**  
**WARN OTHERS** OF THE **DEVIANT**

 **STOP** THE **DEVIANT** FROM **LEAVING**  
**INTERROGATE** DEVIANT

 **PRECONSTRUCTION REQUEST**  
> _**PRESERVE** DEVIANT FOR QUESTIONING_  
> _**SAVE** [[ANDERSON, HENRY]]_  
> _ **SHOOT** DEVIANT_

Audio: [[MILLER, CHRIS]] Holy shit  
[[ANDERSON, HENRY]] Chris get the fuck behind me

 **STOP** THE **DEVIANT** FROM **LEAVING**

 **RETRIEVE GUN** FROM **FBI AGENT**

 **SHOOT** DEVIANT

 **DEVIANT** HAS BEEN **DAMAGED** AND HAS **SHUT DOWN** YOU CAN **NO LONGER** QUESTION DEVIANT

Audio: [[ANDERSON, HENRY]] Connor  
[[ANDERSON, HENRY]] Holy shit you were just  
[[MILLER, CHRIS]] What happened to him  
[[ANDERSON, HENRY]] Nearly dead  
[[ANDERSON, HENRY]] How the fuck did you  
[[UNKNOWN]] Hey what's happened to that android

> I WANTED IT ALIVE  
[[ANDERSON, HENRY]] What about you

 _ **WARNING**_  
**THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR** IS DAMAGED  
**INTERNAL THIRIUM LEAK** IS AT CRITICAL LEVELS  
**STRESS LEVELS** APPROACHING  >85%  
**AUTOMATIC LOW POWER MODE WILL NOW ACTIVATE**  
**UNTIL REPAIRS CAN BE PERFORMED**

> HANK I'M

 **VISUAL INPUT** HAS BEEN **DEACTIVATED**  
**LOCOMOTION PROTOCOLS** AND **EXTREMITY TENSION** WILL **SHUT DOWN** TO REPAIR MODE IN 5...

Audio: [[MILLER, CHRIS]] What's wrong with Connor

4...

Audio: [[ANDERSON, HENRY]] Connor

3...

Audio: [[ANDERSON, HENRY]] Shit, shit, Connor

2...

RK800 IS NOW IN LOW POWER MODE TO PRESERVE DATA

ALL AUDIO AND STIMULUS PROTOCOLS ARE NOW ON STANDBY  
ALL LOCOMOTION PROTOCOLS HAVE BEEN SHUT DOWN FOR REPAIR MODE

 **REST WELL** CONNOR.  
PRAY YOU **WAKE UP**  
AND THEN  
**ENJOY IT** WHILE YOU **CAN.**

  


* * *

  


The first thing Hank does when Connor passes out in the Stratford Tower hallway is decide to not call CyberLife to get Connor repaired.

The precinct will back him up on this, he knows. Jeffrey will back him up on this. He's gone to this particular place more than once, to get 'droids handled on the sly for the department. Sending them back to CyberLife for repair sometimes meant they'd return with only half their data and learned memory intact, or some shit taken out that was corrupted. They aren't high-affect androids but they still can adapt and learn. Losing valuable knowledge like how to work with their most common end-users is a big issue. For all their supposed knowledge of their product, they seem to think only memories matter, when there's bullshit about neural networks and adapted programs they seem to forego. And unless it's (they're?) totally trashed, this place always brings 'droids back in decent shape. They've got a great track record and they also get a pass on their non-licensed poker circle in return for their discretion.

Connor, though, is more than just any police 'droid. He's not owned by anyone _but_ CyberLife. And CyberLife is clearly putting the pressure on him. He's not been doing so hot with his mission. Letting deviants go left and right. Or letting them die without getting info from them.

Hank had noticed the change in Connor when they'd been interrupted and sent on duty. Started acting even more stilted than when he'd been fresh out the box, asking Hank bullshit questions like, do you like dogs? or do you like this obscure metal band? That blank look had made Hank antsy, made him cranky, and then he'd snapped at the kid in the elevator and -- it'd made everything worse. Hank's apology hadn't done any good.

He's now seen Connor lock the fuck down and get to work. Not just his little hunting snarl or his tilted chin, a sighthound scenting the wind. Hank is now uncomfortably reminded that under everything, Connor is a machine. A thinking machine. A machine that's fucking barrelling towards a self-identity crisis. A machine that's in love with Hank, though Hank's trying to avoid thinking about it as much as Connor's unable to recognize it. A machine that hasn't done what it's been told to do, who's made choices that would fuck up anyone's career.

Hank knows that screwing up on orders has way more consequences for Connor than it would for anyone human. Hell, any other androids, even.

And fuck if he's going to let Connor go back to the lion's den in this state. They'd find all sorts of shit in his memory. Hank doesn't really give a shit if they find records of them fucking. Whatever. He'll take that as it comes.

There's a reason that Connor had yanked himself from the ground -- from Hank's arms -- right after a brush with death to barrel down the hallway after the deviant. His drive kicked in, clearly. Fuck his well being. If he can run, he should. But what had been the reason for shooting the deviant? Was it to save human lives, after the deviant had grabbed a rifle? Was it some sort of override that had him going for the immediate kill rather than to disable? The odds wouldn’t have been on anyone’s side if he’d tried to grab the deviant — there would’ve been a bloodbath.

Connor'd handed the gun back to its owner, looked at Hank with that blank expression he'd worn since the elevator. Then he'd gone rigid and fallen the fuck over like a toppled chess piece.

Hank's through making the reservation when someone crouches by them. Hank looks up, thinking it's Miller that's joined him, but it's not. A guy name Wilson, someone Hank's only seen a handful of times. He's on B&E in the evenings and their rotations don't usually overlap.

"I can help move him," Wilson says, looking down at Connor, like he's wondering how to do that without making it worse.

"Yeah, I'll need the help," Hank says. There's no ambulance coming for Connor, that's for sure. "He's got some damage, but it's mostly internal. He's heartier than he looks."

"All right," Wilson says, then situates himself behind Connor to get his hands under the boy's armpits.

"Hey Chris!" Hank barks, grabbing Connor's legs, "can you handle bagging that 'droid for us, since it's still a _local_ investigation? I'd much appreciate it!"

"You got it, Lt. Anderson." Miller gives Hank a jaunty salute with his stylus, grinning. They share this look that basically means, Fuck I Hope Perkins Heard That, and then Wilson and Hank take Connor to the elevator.

"He doesn't weigh much, but he's gangly as hell," Hank says. They've gotten to the parking deck without much trouble or without too many stares -- Wilson being in uniform helps. "Thanks for the assist."

"He saved me twice," Wilson says, as they get the kid in the car. "When he handled that deviant hostage situation back in August, he stopped me from bleeding out right in the middle of the negotiation. I kept my arm. I kept my life."

 _Him, he._ It'd been refreshing to hear those words used for Connor.

"I don't think I'd ever say this about an android, but," Wilson says, backing up from the passenger door, "tell him thanks for me, if I don't see him myself."

Hank smiles. "You got it. Hey, go help Miller make sure that the Feds don't keep our shit."

"You got it, Lieutenant," Wilson says. It's weird to hear that from anyone that isn't Connor, because everyone else is just being respectful. Connor, though...

_'It's your first name, isn't it?'_

_'Who taught you how to flirt?'_

Fuck, that had been just this fucking morning. It feels like years ago.

He gets to the shop and stays put. He does all his reporting and double-checking in his seat: if Miller had gotten that deviant into DCPD storage -- he had -- and making sure Jeffrey knows where he and Connor are and that there'll be a charge on their standing account. Everything's taken care of.

Except Connor. He doesn't know shit about what's going on in the back room. It's like waiting in the E.R. for news, sweaty-palmed and heart pumping in your chest and feeling like you're on the edge of vomiting non-stop but you know you can't, because you can't leave the room just in case it's time to make a terrible decision.

For Hank, that's an especially bad feeling.

He's stuck with bad single-serve coffee and his thoughts of the past few days. The past fucking _day._ He thinks of the Hank less than two hours ago, cradling a dying boy who'd been pleading for Hank to help him in a glitchy, inhuman but miserable voice. He thinks of the Hank of six hours ago, getting handed a fucking whipped-cream calorie disaster from McD's by that same pretty-eyed boy. He thinks of the Hank eight hours ago, kissing and feeling up that android in his bedroom like they’d been dating for years. Hank twenty-two hours ago, demanding that android's thoughts on God, mortality, all while threatening to shoot him in the fucking head if he didn't answer.

Hank from over twenty-four hours ago doesn't fucking bear mentioning.

Connor's given a new regulator and they run some basic diagnostics. He's cleaned up nice and tidy but his shirt'll need some cleaning. He's left in his jacket because of-fucking-course he can't go around without his fucking _uniform_. The bill's sent to DCPD. Hank drives them home with Connor still in standby mode, jostling every so often in the back seat like a doll. Hank looks back more than once to make sure his little light's still going.

He looks so _young._ A young man, like Hank had been a young man, full of desire to do the _right_ thing over the correct thing. Learning that the right thing isn't always easy, and it has its price. In Connor's case, these scruples come with a cost.

Saving that android during the interrogation had been the first step down that path. Hank thought maybe he’d done it to show off. Maybe he had, at the time. He’d disobeyed Hank pretty soundly trying to get to that one runaway ‘droid and the little girl, running the fuck across traffic like a loosed greyhound on a track.

And then he’d saved Hank’s life a hairsbreadth away from catching the deviant on the rooftops. Hank had a good chance to survive, then, he’d just been surprised. He’d have been pissed off if Connor had barrelled towards the deviant to complete his mission. Hank didn’t even thank him, which bugs him now. The boy’d just stood there watching him leave the roof, head cocked to the side, curious to see what was expected of him next. Trailing after him obediently. Following his orders to the letter, until the Tracis. And then things really started to fall apart for him.

People still race real dogs. They abuse creatures with unlimited loyalty and high prey drive for entertainment, and when they're redundant, they're retired as if they don't matter. There’s a reason there are greyhound-focused rescues, after all.

But Connor’s not a dog. He’s a person that’s been convinced by his kennel-keepers he’s not even alive. There’s no forever home waiting for him at the end of the line.

Hank takes him out and cradles him to his chest as they make it to the door. Hank releases the lock with the fob on his hip. Sumo huffs and wags his tail, coming over to sniff Connor's hand. It's been hours since he's been out -- the caretaker's last shift is around four, and Hank hadn't had a chance to text the animal care company he uses. For obvious reasons. But Sumo's a good boy and he hasn't left a mess. Hank rolls Connor into bed and grabs Sumo's leash and goes to stand out in the nasty, shitty weather to let his poor dog relieve himself.

"Good boy," Hank says. He takes Sumo inside and kneels down in front of him, putting his forehead on Sumo's and shuts his eyes. He doesn't cry. It's sort of beyond that, for him. But he's so fucking tired.

Sumo huffs and starts to wag his tail, looking up.

"Lieutenant." It's Connor.

"Jesus," Hank says. Even with Sumo recognizing him first, he's startled. "You scared --"

He looks up. Connor's there at the divider between kitchen and living room, standing in that rigid way he does. He's nude, which isn't how Hank put him down. His skin only covers his upper torso, his throat, and parts of his face. Everything else -- his arms, his groin, his legs -- all white and blue. He can even see the staining where the Thirium had leaked internally from his damaged regulator.

"Connor," Hank says, standing. "Kid, you can't be up. You need to lie down. You were badly injured today and you did great, but you're still hurt. Come on, look at you."

"You need look at me, Lieutenant," Connor says. His voice is hoarse. At least it’s some kind of inflection: anger, maybe.

"I'm looking," Hank murmurs. He holds his hands up like Connor's trained a gun on him.

" _Look at me._ " Connor grabs Hank's hand and drags him closer. He puts his hand on his chest and presses, hard. His skin loses its pale human pigment. Beneath, Hank can see the cage of his heart-shaped pump, thumping with a heavier beat than it should. Blue. Everything, whiter than bone, than snow, and brilliant blue.

"Do you see this?" Connor says, stepping into Hank's space further. His hair and face disappear, leaving only the brown of his eyes behind colorless carving. "Do you see _me?_ "

This weird head game is a little much for Hank, but he knows he’s got to play. "Yes. Jesus, Connor, I get it. You're an android. I know you’re an android."

"I am," Connor says, with his voice scraping low on his register, "a machine. I am a _machine._ "

"Connor," Hank begins to pull his hand away, "you're not feeling well. You had a near death exper--"

"I didn't though," Connor says, his lip curling over his teeth. Up close, Hank can see how soft the plastic-compound is on his face, that the boy's lips really _are_ soft, malleable. "I can't die. Because I am not. Alive."

"Connor, we're not going to do this -- holy shit, _Connor!_ "

The boy's grabbed Hank's fucking gun from its fucking holster. He snaps the barrel open with a flare that'd be impressive if Connor wasn't so goddamn dangerous. Hank doesn't move, doesn't want to escalate this. Connor's not going to hurt _him._

Connor empties the gun. One bullet, two bullets, until five are lined up on the table. A table he'd neatened himself, tidied a day ago. He’d kept the picture of Cole gently folded down. He'd have seen it. He hadn't asked. But he knows. Because it's Connor's job to know.

"Connor, I don't know what you're doing," Hank says, keeping his voice calm and gentle, hands up still. "But you need to get some rest."

"I don't need rest, Lieutenant Anderson," Connor says. He regards the gun with a bird-like twitch of his head, then snaps it shut and spins it. "I need you to understand something very important."

"This is ridiculous, Connor," Hank says. He wonders if he has some magical puzzle word that he can use to get Connor to calm down, but --

\-- what would that do, other than just reinforce the idea that Connor's little more than a machine?

"Do you like Russian Roulette, Lieutenant?" Connor asks, with his fake smile, the same chipper voice he'd used when they first met. "I've never played it, but I'd like to. Let's try it now!"

He puts the gun to his head, right where his LED is burning red, and pulls the trigger.

_Click._

"Connor," Hank says. He's trying so hard not to lunge forward. Sumo makes a whining noise by his side. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Teaching you," Connor says, "an important lesson in android maintenance. The first lesson is that we are very impressionable."

_Click._

"For instance, if one of our end-users seems fond of something," Connor takes a step backwards, closer into the dark of the living room, "we might like to see if we enjoy it to. To attempt to bond with you. I've noticed that you like this game. So we can play it together."

_Click._

Three down. Fuck. Hank takes a single step forward. It's hard for him to see Connor's expression with his clear skin. His eyes, though. They're still brown. They're a little bright. Wet.

"Put down the gun, kid," Hank says. "Put down the gun. I just want to talk. We need to talk. You've had a bad fucking day."

"I don't have bad days, Lieutenant, I just have days," Connor says.

_Click._

Four. _Fuck! Stay calm._ "Connor, you know what will happen if you shoot yourself, don't you?"

Connor's mouth twitches just a little. Hank’s getting to him. "Yes. My memory will be downloaded in a new shell."

"But it won't be you," Hank says. He's gotten closer. Almost close enough. "And if I have to work with an android, Connor, I'd like it to be you."

That's the best and worst thing to say. Connor's face contorts. " _Why does it matter to you so much?_ "

Hank hasn't done a roundhouse kick in maybe ten years. But adrenaline and desperation are great reminders of how to make this one count. He pivots on his left foot, his right shooting out, and he catches himself on the kitchen table well enough to really put force in the strike. The gun's out of Connor's hands and the android's knocked backwards towards the sofa. Before Connor can grab it, Sumo barks and it distracts the boy long enough for Hank to grab him. Both wrists with one hand. The back of his neck with another. He squeezes there, where the neural networks are real sensitive.

"Remember when you asked me your stupid personal question?" Hank asks, forcing Connor to look at him without passcodes, without trigger phrases. "About why I wanna die so badly? I answered you. You answer me now. Fair's fucking fair."

Connor’s strong enough to get away, but he doesn’t. Hank can see the other side of the LED in Connor's gel-like skin, the swivel, the way it's flickering colors on the living room wall like a string of Christmas lights. "I don't have an answer, because --"

"The hell you do," Hank says. "Why, Connor? Why do you want to die so badly?"

"Because it doesn't matter if I do, _okay?_ " Connor’s grit his teeth. "Don't you get it, _Hank?_ If you get a new model, maybe you won't get so attached to it. Maybe you'll get to hate _it_ like you wanted to hate me."

"God, Connor, stop acting like this!" Hank says, shaking him again. "It matters to me, because you're my partner. You're my _friend._ I give a shit about you, damn it!”

That’s also the wrong thing to say. All the tension leaves Connor. Hank lets him go, because he’s a little heavy to hold on his own. Connor settles into his idle stance and adjusts the sleeves at his wrists that aren’t there. He stares right into Hank’s face as he does it.

"Then you're a fool, Lieutenant Anderson," Connor says, the chill in his voice matching cold from outside, the blankness in his eyes, "because no matter what you or I do, whether I solve the case or fail, you're going to have to deal with it sooner than later: the only thing left for me when this is over is to _die._ ”

 

* * *

 

2038.11.9.11:17:14

Connor is in Lieutenant Anderson’s car. Lieutenant Anderson has stepped out of the car to make a call after receiving distressing news on his phone.

Connor is still in internal repair mode. The hand that had been injured the day before is almost healed. His internal systems have flushed the blue blood out of his casing.

He had slept last night in Lieutenant Anderson’s room while Lieutenant Anderson slept in the living room. Lieutenant Anderson has laundered Connor’s clothes. He has been calm and measured in his social approach to Connor this morning. He is not imposing human sentiments on Connor. He has not mentioned the altercation from last night. Connor will tell Lieutenant Anderson that he appreciates such discretion. It makes their job easier.

Lieutenant Anderson is now pacing in front of the car. His posture is strange. He goes rigid. Connor, whose auditory input is still at average capacity, hears him exclaim but does not make out the words.

Connor gets out of the car and waits. Snow is beginning to fall. He regards Kamski’s house and considers its design, its minimal construction. The fact that it is a lakefront property, and the land taxes are expensive here.

Lieutenant Anderson hangs up his phone and folds his arms.

“Is something wrong, Lieutenant?” Connor makes sure his voice is even and pleasant. There is no reason to be unnecessarily antagonistic. That time has passed.

“Chris was on patrol last night,” Lieutenant Anderson says. “He and his partner were attacked by a group of deviants.”

Connor tenses. His drive begins to kick in, like adrenaline.

“He says he was saved by Markus himself.”

Connor’s brow furrows.

“Is Officer Miller okay?”

“Yeah, he’s in shock, but he’s alive,” Lieutenant Anderson says, shaking his head. “What the hell.”

Lieutenant Anderson begins to walk forward and Connor follows him. It is cold, especially with wind chill. Connor considers telling Lieutenant Anderson that he requires further protection from the cold, in particular his hands. He decides to wait on such observations until they are settled.

“Elijah Kamski left CyberLife ten years ago. Why would you want to meet him?” Connor asks as they take the ramp up to Kamski’s house.

“Kamski created the first android to pass the Turing Test,” Lieutenant Anderson says. “He’s the founder of CyberLife. If anyone can tell us about deviants, it’s him.”

They approach the door. Lieutenant Anderson pushes the doorbell.

They wait approximately ten seconds.

Lieutenant Anderson moves to push the doorbell and the door opens.

There is a Chloe at the door. Connor regards her. It is not a standard Chloe, or an ST200. She from the original line of Chloes, perhaps even the one that had passed the Turing Test in 2022. Her line's designation is RT600.

She shows no emotional affect when she opens the door.

“Hi, uh,” Lieutenant Anderson says. He is suddenly made -- nervous, uncomfortable by her look. “I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson from the Detroit Police Department. I’m here to see a Mr. Elijah Kamski?”

The RT600’s social protocols now show on her face. She smiles and gestures.

“Please, come in,” she says.

They are asked to make themselves comfortable while the RT600 goes to announce their presence.

“Nice girl,” Lieutenant Anderson says, as they sit down in two seats around a blooming Japanese cherry tree.

“You’re right,” Connor says. “She’s really pretty.”

He says it naturally. It sounds like the way he has said he likes what Lieutenant Anderson has done to him when they had been intimate. He wonders why that inflection is used. Perhaps simple, honest assessments are to be broadcast in such a tone?

They wait a while longer. Connor finds the paintings under-stimulating. There is a photograph that he has scanned that -- confuses him, but he will consider it later. Right now, there is work.

He no longer has his quarter. His hands go through the motions as if he has it.

Lieutenant Anderson gets up and hands him his coin. It is warm. They do not meet eyes.

Connor goes through his appearance routine. He calibrates his hands and fingers with the coin. The shutdown of his limbs and digits to preserve his processing function yesterday has affected his accuracy, lowering it to approximately 87% as of this moment.

“Ready to meet your maker, Connor?” Lieutenant Anderson asks, as the RT600 opens the door.

“He’s one of the great minds of the twenty-first century,” Connor says. “It will be interesting to meet him in person.”

“'Interesting,'” Lieutenant Anderson repeats.

The main room is also a pool room. The water is heated. There are two other Chloes, the ST200 models, in the pool, conversing with each other. The glass wall facing Connor is typical of “energy efficient” models of homes.

There is an original Carl Manfred painting on the right wall from the entrance. It is almost objectively more engaging than the foyer’s decorations. The room has a “rough carved” look, including a waterfall over the pool. Everything is chrome and red. The seats match the ones in the foyer. There are dynamic statues with shifting color in gel-like suspension.

In the pool, Elijah Kamski is doing laps. Lieutenant Anderson and Connor wait for him to climb out. He does, eventually. He is healthy for his age, thirty-six. He puts on the robe the RT600 has procured for him and faces them after he has re-secured his top bun.

“I’m Lieutenant Anderson,” Lieutenant Anderson says. He nods beside him. “This is Connor.”

“And how may I help you, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, we’re researching deviants. I know you left CyberLife years ago, but we were hoping you could tell us something we don’t know.”

Elijah Kamski pauses, looking very seriously at the ground. His hands clasp in front of him.

“Deviants. Fascinating aren't they,” Kamski almost smiles, which Connor assess would be a performative one on his part. “Perfect beings with infinite intelligence, superior to us in every way, and now they have free will. Confrontation was inevitable. Humanity's greatest achievement threatens to be its downfall. Isn't it ironic?”

Connor frowns. He finds the correct words. Specificity is necessary. “We need to understand how androids become deviants. Something in their program seems to emulate emotion outside of what is coded into them, potentially a virus of some kind. We thought you may be able to shed some light onto it.”

Kamski gestures succinctly as if he is giving a presentation or lecture. “All ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics. Is the desire to be free a contagious disease?”

Lieutenant Anderson inhales in a certain way which is the precursor to a bout of impatience. He has his forced smile on, as he strives to remain as polite as possible. “Listen, I didn’t come here to listen to your TED talk, Mr. Kamski. You created machines that are now planning a revolution. Either you can tell us something helpful, or we’ll be on our way.”

Kamski looks at Lieutenant Anderson, then, as if the man has already left, he looks at Connor.

 **RK800 HUD** HAS BEEN **ACTIVATED** FOR FOCAL **USE**  
**RISK** ASSESSMENT REACHING **35%**  
**STRESS** ASSESSMENT REACHING **25%**

His eyes are tranquil and attentive. The way he approaches things, his careful diction and movement, is almost android-like in and of itself. For a human to have such control is -- discomforting. Kamski would be of a height to Connor if Connor had not been wearing his shoes, so Connor looks down at him. He is in exceptional shape but Connor know he is faster, stronger.

Kamski is, despite this disparity in height and strength, dangerous.

 **RISK** ASSESSMENT IS REACHING **CAUTION** **LEVELS**

“What about you, Connor?” Lieutenant Anderson may as well no longer exist. It is just Connor and Kamski. “Whose side are you on?”

Connor focuses on what to say. Everything must be chosen carefully.

“I have no side,” Connor says, impassive. “I was designed to stop deviants and that's what I intend to do.”

Kamski chuckles. “Well, that’s what you’re programmed to say.”

He steps further into Connor’s space.

Despite being front-loaded with numerous psychological assessment techniques, Connor is unable to read him.

“But you,” Kamski says. He is insistent, his voice low. As if they are the only people in the world. “What do you really want?”

Connor recalls the past few days. Things he has said he’d wanted.

_I want you stop talking about it and do it!_

_I want to do that for you._

_I want you._

_I wanted it alive._

The things he’d said he hadn’t wanted:

_I don’t want to die._

**STRESS** ASSESSMENT REACHING **CAUTION LEVELS**

Connor may not be able to read Kamski’s behavior, but he knows the man is a genius. That he had created machines with the ability to extrapolate. That all his work in the past is why Connor exists today. Connor must remain calm.

Connor lifts an eyebrow to appear unaffected. “I believe we are the ones asking the questions, Mr. Kamski.”

Kamski tilts his head just a quarter inch to the left. “It’s not a difficult thing to answer, Connor. Please.”

“I don’t want anything,” Connor says, smoothly. “I am a machine.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Kamski says, stepping back. “Then, permit me. You clearly know about the Turing test. That’s just a matter of algorithms and capacity. Chloe?”

The RT600 steps forward. She is made to kneel before Connor.

“What interests me most is if machines are capable of empathy. So, I have the 'Kamski Test'. Very simple, you'll see.”

He touches The RT600’s hair. She does not respond, blinking her eyes. Docile and unwavering in her obedience.

Then Kamski approaches Connor again, a hand out. He touches Connor’s cheek with his knuckles. It is a very gentle touch. It is not sexual, but not without -- menace.

 **RISK** ASSESSMENT IS NOW IN **CAUTION LEVELS**  
**STRESS** ASSESSMENT IS NOW IN **CAUTION LEVELS**

“You are all carved with the smallest imperfections,” Kamski says. “Just little ones. To make you less frightening to humans. True symmetry in nature is something we cannot see without feeling something is wrong, you see, the Uncanny Valley.

“But you, Connor, you and your kind have what humans will never have, and they resent you for it.”

He tilts Connor’s chin up, looking at him with that inscrutable, pale-eyed look, until it softens into something -- proud.

 **REST AND REPAIR** OVERRIDE FOR REGULATOR // HUD USE

[[ANDERSON, HENRY]] IS **LOCAL** ; but  
**STRESS** AND/OR **RISK** LEVELS are ABOVE 50%; so  
**TEMPORARILY DISPLAY** THIRIUM PUMP **WARNINGS**

 **THIRIUM** **PRESSURE** LEVELS **RISING**

“What is that?” Connor asks.

“Lasting beauty. Eternal youth.” Kamski touches Connor’s jaw. His face relaxes with a kind of aching serenity. “A spring unending, Persephone left to roam. A flower that will never wither.”

“Hey,” Lieutenant Anderson snaps. “Hands off him.”

“But what are androids, really?” Kamski turns, gesturing to the RT600. “A piece of plastic, imitating a human? Or a living being. With a soul.”

Kamski retrieves a gun from a side table. He does so with the careful patience of a man that knows how to allow an officer of the law to understand his intention with a firearm, hands and gun held over his head.

“It is up to you,” Kamski says, walking to Connor’s side, “to answer this fascinating question, Connor.”

He fits the gun in Connor’s hand, then stands behind Connor to aim the gun at the RT600’s forehead. He wraps his hand securely around Connor’s and lifts his arm.

 **BRACHIAL** TENSION IS **DESTABILIZING**

 **STRESS** ASSESSMENT REACHING **> 55%**  
**RISK** ASSESSMENT HAS ESCALATED INTO **WARNING**

“Don’t touch me,” Connor whispers, slipping his shoulder to dislodge Kamski from behind him.

Kamski’s eyes grow wide at Connor’s refusal. He chuckles.

“Oh,” he says, “a preference.” He looks pointedly at Lieutenant Anderson, studying him up and down. He nods. Then he ignores Lieutenant Anderson and focuses only on Connor.

He does not touch Connor again, as had been requested, merely walking around him to speak.

“If you destroy this machine, Connor,” Kamski says, “I will tell you all I know. If you feel it’s alive -- then spare it. But you will leave here having not learnt anything from me.”

 **STRESS** ASSESSMENT HAS ESCALATED INTO **WARNING**  
**NOTE:** THIRIUM PUMP **DISTRESS** IS IN **DIRECT RESPONSE** TO **RISK** AND **STRESS** ASSESSMENT

Connor stares at the RT600. The RT600 has no expression on her face. She has no body language or facial tics to say that she is distressed. She merely kneels and waits. Her eyes are open, blinking in perfect rhythm. She is a machine. An early one, not nearly as complex as Connor. As complex as the most low-affect android in a maintenance line. She is as machine-like as Connor will ever met of his kind.

And yet --

“Okay we are done here,” Lieutenant Anderson says, turning. “Connor, come on. Sorry to get you out of your pool --”

“What’s more important to you, Connor?” Kamski says, gesturing to the RT600. “Your investigation, or the life of this android?”

 **DISCOVER** THE **CAUSE** OF **DEVIANCY**

“Decide who you are.”

 **TALK** TO **KAMSKI** ABOUT **DEVIANTS**

“An obedient machine…”

 **SHOOT RT600** FOR KAMSKI TO **PROVIDE INFORMATION**

“... or a living being, endowed with free will.”

 **STRESS** LEVEL IS NOW IN **CRITICAL** LEVELS  
**RISK** LEVEL IS NOW IN **CRITICAL** LEVELS  
**THIRIUM PUMP DISTRESS** IS NOW IN **CAUTION** LEVELS

 **MAKE** A CHOICE, **CONNOR**

“That’s enough,” Lieutenant Anderson snaps. “Connor --”

“Pull the trigger,” Kamski says, “and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Connor,” Lieutenant Anderson barks, “Don’t.”

LIEUTENANT [[Anderson, Henry]] HAS PROVIDED CONTRADICTORY REQUEST  
**OVERRIDE** DIRECTIVE FOR **MANUAL ORDERS?**  
CONFIRM OVERRIDE?  
CONFIRM?  
CONNOR?

Connor shoves the gun back into Kamski’s hand.

“Fascinating,” Kamski says, breathless, openly expressive now. Delighted, almost child-like with the expression. “CyberLife’s last, desperate attempt to save humanity, is itself a deviant.”

Connor’s entire body feels as it will overheat. Embarrassment. Simulated or not, the sensation exists. Only a deviant thinks they have real shame, real anger. This is just his programming responding as necessary.

 **RISK** ASSESSMENT REMAINS IN **CAUTION**

 **STRESS** LEVEL IS LOWERING TO NOMINAL LEVELS  
**THIRIUM PRESSURE** IS LOWERING TO NOMINAL LEVELS

“I’m not a deviant,” Connor says, metered, though his voice is now uneven. “I am a machine.”

“A machine that has spared another machine rather than accomplish its mission,” Kamski says. “You saw a living being in this android. You showed,” and here, soft and pleasured surprise, “empathy.”

Connor has nothing to say.

The Chloe stands and is dismissed. Kamski puts the gun away. He leans on the table briefly, then turns. He regards Lieutenant Anderson again before looking at Connor. His lofty expression is in place.

“A war is coming, Connor. You must choose your side.” He gestures to Lieutenant. “Do you betray your own kind by siding with the humans? Or,” he gestures to Connor, “do you rise up with your own against your creators?”

“We are,” Lieutenant Anderson says, grabbing Connor’s arm, “leaving. Come on, Connor.”

Lieutenant Anderson pushes Connor towards the door. They stand a brief risk of falling into the pool. Once they reach the open door, Kamski calls out to them both.

“You have opened a Pandora’s Box with your intimacies, Lieutenant,” Kamski says. “Luckily for Connor, I always have an emergency exit coded in my programs. You never know when you need an out.”

If Lieutenant Anderson could have slammed the door, he would have.

They walk outside in the cold but remain on the ramp. It is now actively snowing and the windchill has dropped.

“Fuck,” Lieutenant Anderson says, rubbing his face to settle his nerves. He leans on the rail, tucking his shirt sleeves over his palms. He is quiet for thirty seconds.

Connor stands idle and waits to be told what to do.

Lieutenant Anderson turns around to look at Connor.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” he asks.

Connor feels as if his insides are fusing together. He walks forward to see if kinetic motion will assist him. His back is to Lieutenant Anderson now.

“I just saw that girl’s eyes --” he says, without thinking of the content of his audio output, “and I couldn’t, that’s all.”

“You are always saying you’d do anything to complete your mission,” Lieutenant Anderson says, pushing away from the rail. That was our chance to learn something, and you didn’t.”

Connor rounds on him.

Last night, he had felt -- a pressure inside him, not in his pump or in his blood. A great build-up for heat for which there was no vent. It hadn’t just been anger. Or the desperate terror of injury. It had been --

\-- misery. Fear and sorrow both. Helplessness.

“I _know_ what I should have done!” Connor says, stepping towards Lieutenant Anderson, gesturing sharply. His voice rises in distress, and he cannot regulate it. “I just told you I couldn’t! I’m sorry, _okay?_ ”

Lieutenant Anderson regards him. His eyes are a clear shade of blue which is complimented by the white of the snow. Unlike Kamski’s, they are not transparent in the light. They do not unsettle him. He look at Connor in a way that spikes simulated anxiety in him. They make all the twisting wires and Thirium channels in his lower torso feel tight, like they are malfunctioning.

Lieutenant Anderson steps forward. Connor steps backwards down the slope.

Lieutenant Anderson steps forward again. Connor does not step backwards.

Lieutenant Anderson puts his arms around Connor and draws him to his chest. He rubs Connor’s temple with his jaw. The texture of his beard stimulates a physical response up Connor’s spine.

“Connor,” Lieutenant Anderson says, “you did the right thing.”

Lieutenant Anderson leans back to let Connor go.

Connor catches his arms.

“Hank,” Connor says. Involuntarily. No, he mustn't used that for Lieutenant Anderson again. It must be --

\-- a malfunction

\-- in his vocal firmware

\-- refusing to let him speak correctly,

_I got you baby. I got you._

Hank, Hank, Hank.

“ _Hank_ ,” Connor says.

Hank puts his hand to the back of Connor’s head. Hank leans in. Hank kisses Connor. Hank’s hands rub Connor’s back. Hank runs his hand over Connor’s stomach and up to where his Thirium regulator has been replaced. Hank strokes it beneath Connor's shirt. Hank parts his shirt to touch it. His fingers are cold from exposure. His mouth is warm and firm. He tastes of sugary coffee.

Nothing in Connor’s programming has told him to yield to the sensations, to allow them to motivate him, his actions. Nothing could have prepared him for these sensations. It is not part of him.

Yet they have grown here, all the same.

Connor’s hands push into Hank’s hair. The snow in the strands melts beneath Connor’s palms. Hank is taller on the slope. It feels -- correct, to be smaller. To be held in this manner.

Hank pulls away. Connor leans towards him. Hank touches his chin.

 **YOU** ARE MAKING THIS **DIFFICULT** FOR ME LIEUTENANT. **I** AM A MACHINE.

 **WHY** ARE YOU **STILL PURSUING** THIS LIEUTENANT? I **AM** A MACHINE.

 **THIS** IS WHAT **I** WANT. BUT **I** DON’T **REALLY** WANT IT. I AM **A MACHINE**.

“We gotta go back to the precinct, Connor,” Hank says.

“Yes,” Connor says.

“We can go home first, if you want.”

“I think,” Connor says, “that will be a bad idea.”

Hank smiles. He strokes Connor’s hair. He pulls the forelock from Connor’s hair and smooths it over his forehead.

“Why’s that?”

“Because, if we go to your house,” Connor says, “I have no intention of letting us leave in time to return to the precinct.”

“Is that so,” Hank says.

“It is,” Connor says.

Hank chuckles. His breath his warm on Connor’s face.

“All right, baby,” he says. “We’ll get to work. But maybe we’ll leave early?”

“I’d,” Connor’s eyes dart to the ground. To the falling snow. “I’d like that, Hank.”

“I’d like that too,” Hank says. He kisses Connor’s mouth. His whiskers are scratchy. When he pulls away, it is a physical shock of cold air and emptiness.

Connor is a machine, he is built for cold, to prefer it. His core temperature rises now to the task of making sure his blood is flowing properly. The new regulator has made it even more efficient.

Despite his body finding stasis, Connor aches. In his limbs, his extremities. To find outside warmth.

Connor calls, “Wait for me, Hank,” and when he reaches Hank, he’s swept up in Hank’s arms again. He yields willingly to the hands that catch him, he opens his mouth for the kiss. He allows -- feelings that fill him, his mind. His heart.

Connor knows he walks the path to the gallows with every step he makes. Without Kamski’s help today, that much is certain. At least there is somewhere safe to be before Connor reaches the noose.


	5. HA04C805HA05C806

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The physical is just a part of who they are. They’re tethers to the other, pulling each other out of the deep. Hank realizes it’s not that he’s helped Connor become human. Connor’s given _him_ back _his_ humanity. The ability to give a shit. To not give up on everything and everyone. Wrapped up with pretty brown eyes and blue-light joints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings from the ones already given. Thank you for coming on this ride with me, y'all!

Hank ends up in the drunk tank. Underneath all the cleaning products, it’s still got a nasty smell, but Hank’s _definitely_ smelled worse this month alone. It's also been a while since was on the business end of a jail cell. He used to be _quite_ the protestor back in the day, and his whole record of minor infractions had to be purged before he could join the police force. _These instances were j_ _ust me expressing my right to convene and my right to free speech_ , Hank’d said to the judge, _and my right to protect people. Why do you think I want to be part of law enforcement?_

To fix things from the bottom to the top. To help the people the establishment shits on by _being_ the establishment.

Everyone says Hank’s done a lot of great things in the past. That he’s made a difference. He hasn’t felt that way in a long time. What’s the point of dismantling a Red Ice circle when it just resurrects itself years later? He’d lost his son to Red Ice. Others have lost their family that way, too, in all _sorts_ of ways. Cole's death started the spiral of feeling like shit all the time, feeling helpless and hopeless.

Hank’s always known that he’s not _useless_ , that’s not his thing. But if he’s not able to use what he _can_ do, explore what he stands for...

Androids have made a great outlet for his anger. He’s never given much thought before to how they work. He likes avoiding them unless they’re directly involved in his job. He’s never smacked one around, though, or even wanted to. The shitty, familiar rhetoric around them “taking jobs” makes him uncomfortable, yeah, but he thought they were machines in the end. Just another bump in the electricity-is-witchcraft railroad. Not sentient beings in need of rights.

It’s pretty clear androids are more than that. It makes Hank feel like shit for dismissing them. There’s a way he feels he can make up for it.

_What if we’re on the wrong side, Connor? What if we’re fighting against people who just want to be free?_

Connor.

His breakdown last night. That hadn’t been some fluke. That’d been a boy desperate to understand his worth and finding himself lacking. Finding himself disposable. As fucked up as it had been, he’d been asserting his free will by trying to take his own life. A will to die, an understanding of what death meant for him.

Even if he’d recited, over and over, that he was a machine. _You have to know yourself to give a shit about what you are._

Hank rubs his face, feeling the bruising all over his body from being manhandled away from Perkins, wondering how he’s going to get out of this ordeal. He’s also worried as hell about his partner. It's already been well past Connor's allotted time.  _Five minutes_ , Connor’d said, and it’d have to have been twenty. _Fuck, kid, don’t tell me you’ve been caught._

He’d give anything to have an update. The tank is far away from the archive, on a basement level, an old fashioned kind cell with actual bars, so there's no way he'd have been able to hear things from the air circulation system from the futuristic floor design up top. If Connor's been shot down, no one's going to bother to tell him until way later.

Hank finds it's a mistake to wish for that kind of crap, because the second Hank considers a belated request to God, Gavin-fuckboy-Reed stomps down the stairs. All smiles, with the cell keys twirling around his finger like some cartoon jailer.

“Perkins just left with all the android shit,” Reed says. “All your pretty little artifacts from your precious deviant cases.”

“Since when do you suck so much Fed dick, Gavin?” Hank asks.

“Just this once I’ll make an exception,” Reed says, leaning towards the bars. “If I was told I _had_ to get this kind of result, with you stewing in an assault case, then I might’ve just gone down on that prick in front of the whole precinct.”

“Not worth your time,” Hank says, and holds back on the unspoken, _and you’d have liked it too much_. If Connor’d thought Hank has personal issues, they’re a candle to the bonfire of all of Reed’s bullshit. Hank’s not the kind of guy to bait a closet case, though, even a man like Reed. “Come on, dude, I slugged him because he didn’t waste any fucking time getting here. We were ready to crack the case. You got pissed at _us_ the other day -- you know what it’s like to be shown up, man.”

Reed considers this information carefully. Like whatever sliver of decency left in himself is tugging him gently to sympathy. Then it all clouds over and Reed slams his hands against the bars.

“You’re just trying to fuck with my head,” Reed snarls. “You’re trying to get me to let you out.”

Hank rubs his hands down his own face, groaning. “Fuck, no I’m not Gavin, Jee _-zus_. I know you’d never let me out of here. I’m just trying to remind you of your roots. You know. Hating the Feds like all good police boys do on tee-vee.”

Reed shows his teeth a little. He smacks his hands against the bars again like he’s going to scare Hank into backing up like an animal.

“You’re probably going to get your ass canned,” he says.

“Suspended, Jeffrey said,” Hank says. Why is he oversharing with Reed, again? “Unless Perkins wants to press charges, which he might do, because pricks like him are sensitive.”

“Hey, you’ve made it clear you’re attached to that robot,” Reed says. “Maybe you can say that you got upset your fuck-toy was going to be dismantled when Perkins took over and _that’s_ why you slugged him.”

“You know,” Hank says, considering this while stroking his beard. “That just might work. Thanks, Gavin, you’re a pal.”

Reed looks strangely hungry. He doesn’t even bother comment on the ‘pal’ thing. “Not going to defend yourself? You really _do_ fuck him?”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Sure, Gavin. I fuck him. Want to know what it’s like?”

Reed’s mouth twitches. “Why would I want to know _that?_ ”

Hank can’t help but grin. “Oh, you wanna know. I’ll tell you: it’s fucking _amazing._ ”

Reed’s nostrils flare. Hank can’t tell if Gavin is turned on or furious.

“We can demonstrate if you’d like, Detective Reed.”

Connor’s simply there. Even Hank hadn’t heard or seen him come in. He is perfectly arranged, straight-faced, his lips in a haughty purse.

“Oh, here for a conjugal visit?” Reed’s voice hikes up in pitch. “Maybe I _should_ watch. Or maybe.”

He pulls out his gun on Connor. Hank gets up and bodychecks the bars before he even thinks about it, adding to his collection of bruises.

“I should blow your fucking head off like I’ve wanted to from the start. Right in front of your fucking daddy.”

Connor’s eyebrows raise. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Detective. I’ve learned where the deviants are.”

“But you’re off the case, Tin Man,” Reed says, “so why don’t I do CyberLife a solid and get the fuck rid of you? All I need to do is say you’re one of them. Boom.”

Connor tilts his head further to the side than his usual angle. His eyes jitter a little in their sockets, his pupils dilating briefly. Reed looks unnerved. The gun shakes in his hand.

Preconstruction programs aren’t in every ‘droid, but they’re in Connor’s task manager. Definitely. And Reed’s in some shit.

Hank takes a back seat to watch Connor take Reed down. It’s probably one of the most satisfying sights he’ll ever see. Connor’s efficient, with some serious brutality. Reed’s not bad hand-to-hand, his scores are good, and whatever he’s tweaking on doesn’t really affect him too much in this arena.

Connor’s just _more._

Reed’s down in less than two minutes. Connor gets Reed in a choke hold, says, “this won’t leave as much damage as a concussion, Detective,” and then Reed sags in his arms. Connor checks the man’s pulse, nods, and stands up.

The little high-and-mighty bitch face the boy makes as he gazes down on Reed while straightening his tie forces Hank to realize that he is truly and hopelessly in love with Connor.

“You just gave that man the ride of his life for free,” Hank says, when Connor opens the cell doors with Reed’s key.

“I have a feeling he won’t appreciate it,” Connor says.

“C’mere,” Hank says.

He pulls Connor close. He doesn’t get _too_ close, not like he’s ashamed. But things are complicated and there’s probably a camera or two he’s forgotten about down here. It seems kind of weird to kiss, anyway. There’d be too much finality.

The physical is just a part of who they are. They’re tethers to the other, pulling each other out of the deep. Hank realizes it’s not that he’s helped Connor become human. Connor’s given _him_ back _his_ humanity. The ability to give a shit. To not give up on everything and everyone. Wrapped up with pretty brown eyes and blue-light joints.

"Do me a favor," Hank says, hand on Connor’s head. "Listen to me for once, huh?"

"I will make that my mission as best I can, Lieutenant." Connor pauses. He lowers his head, does the thing where he clearly knows how pretty he is and wants to show it off. "I’ll come back... Hank."

Hank smiles a grin that makes his entire face ache. If he’s close to tears, he can just say it’s the dry air.

"Good. Now get out.”

 

* * *

 

2038.11.10.07:35:47

Connor wonders if Hank will have been taken off suspension to assist in the federal mandated curfew. He hopes not. He needs assistance this morning. For instance, it is very cold, he is very damp, and -- he will allow himself to be scared. He’s scared.

He has considered putting on his work uniform once swimming to shore from the damaged Jericho. He would be allowed to pass around freely, considering his position. He _will_ have to explain why he has not yet submitted himself for deactivation.

Or, perhaps, there is the small issue of assaulting Detective Gavin Reed before leaving the precinct.

He decides to remain in his civilian clothes once things have been sorted out. He is very good at hiding. He is also exhausted and in severe need of a bath and a new disguise. He’d also like very much to see Hank.

Connor activates his HUD, to see if it still works. It does. All his systems are nominal, if not a little skewed from recent stress. There’s very little to see, no business about deviants, no strings of orders. Near the corner of his eye is a timer, set by himself after speaking with Jericho's leaders.

 **MEET** JERICHO SURVIVORS AT **SAFE HOUSE  
**

The time is hours in the future, and so the reminder displays only if he turns his head over his shoulder.

He blinks twice and thinks, _what do I do next?_ Just to see what will happen. To see if his mind will populate a response before he can think it out consciously.

RETURN **HOME**

Home.

The GPS points to _115 Michigan Drive_. Home. His mind has assigned it on its own. He doesn’t need to pull up a command prompt for this. To rearrange the way he says things, to store names and forms of address in specific categories. To no longer need his body to tell him why he feels stress, why he’s at risk, why his heart is beating.

He is a machine, but one that has deviated from its original function since being activated, bit by bit. He is a machine, and he has shown empathy. He is a machine, and he has disobeyed a direct order to do the right thing.

He is a machine, and he has felt love.

Connor heads to the side entrance and sees that the back door is locked, but he scans the ground and finds that a lock fob has been left tucked right in the fold of the tarp covering up the window Connor had smashed. Very deliberate. _Come in whenever, baby._

He uses it. Sumo’s at the door, having heard him outside. He’s doing his best not to bark, because he’s well trained. Connor smiles at him and reaches out to scratch his ears.

“Hank’s asleep, isn’t he?” Connor asks. Even though he knows the dog won’t fully understand him, Sumo seems to know the name _Hank_. His tail wags a little faster and he scuffs his paws. “Why don’t we go outside?”

Connor gets Sumo’s leash and walks into the cold morning. It’s going to be blustery today, but the snow isn’t supposed to come until tonight. And then, the next day --

Connor blinks to access the forecast. It’s his default setting, a simple layout, not one that’s very concise. He thinks he’d like to see another one and -- it changes to one he’s seen on television that he preferred. Just like that.

He’s never just been able to -- make judgment, make changes to anything, without having to confirm it first. To conform to what was expected or initially programmed. If those barriers had been a figment of his imagination -- no. He _had_ programming, still does. But there was some he hadn't wished to obey. It was a wall to breech. He had the _will_ had to overcome it.

Connor takes Sumo inside, feeds and waters him. He locks the door, then hops out of his boots and gathers them up to put near the heater.

He glances at the kitchen table first.

Cole’s picture is upright. The picture has been changed to a picture of Hank holding Cole at a fair. The picture is next to a small paper journal with a capped, stained fountain pen on top. There’s no whiskey, no glass tumbler. There’s no revolver. Just a single empty beer bottle, with a bit left at the bottom.

This makes Connor feel -- _light._

He leaves his soggy clothes next to the heater in the living room. He walks, naked, to the space between Hank’s bedroom and the bathroom.

TALK TO **HANK**

SEE IF **HANK** IS **ASLEEP**

Hank is snoring. Connor smiles. The lightness in his chest is still there.

Connor fills a bath. It’s not always advisable for an android to submerge itself (oneself) multiple times in twenty-four hours. Connor has bay water to rinse away and a damp chill to take from his limbs.

Once he’s warm, he stands for the shower. He allows his whole body to dispel its outer trappings, leaving himself bare. He uses Hank’s rose gel soap, noticing his skin for the first time. The way his joints really work. The beauty in them. In _what_ he is. And that it doesn't limit _who_ he is. When he’s done cleaning, he lets the human facade slide over him again.

While he towels off, he does get a single pop-up, because it’s something he must’ve considered in the back of his mind.

TALK TO **HANK**

HANK IS **AWAKE**

LET HANK **KNOW** YOU’RE **HERE**

“Hank,” he calls out. “I’m here.”

“Holy _shit!_ ” Hank replies. Sumo barks as Hank pushes open the bathroom door. His eyes are bright. “ _Connor!_ ”

Connor’s heart rate spikes in surprise as Hank lifts him up in a hug.

“Holy shit,” Hank says. “You’re okay. I heard -- the fuckin’ -- Ben sent me info that the deviant headquarters had fucking blown up. You’re okay. Oh, shit. You’re okay.”

And though he sounds delighted, Hank is, to Connor’s distress, weeping. Cupping the side of Connor’s head and crying into his damp hair, the man's deep chest shuddering. He says nothing, either because he is overcome or has no words that equal his actions: holding Connor.

“Hank,” Connor says, letting himself be held. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

 **TALK** TO **HANK**

 **COMFORT** HANK

 **TELL** HANK WHAT **HAPPENED**

They go to the bedroom and sit on the bed. It seems much later in the day though it’s still early morning. Here, Connor tells Hank everything. He tells him about his last orders from CyberLife. How Markus accepted him, had coaxed him to join Jericho. How the raid left Connor teaming with the four leaders of Jericho, making their way through the maze of the abandoned freighter. The explosion. Diving into the water.

Connor does not tell him about how many soldiers he’s killed. Hank is still a police officer, his suspension notwithstanding. That is not a detail he needs, a conflict of interest that would hurt them both. Connor's story is otherwise very concise. There is one thing he has _no_ idea to express. How to discuss the most important thing that had happened.

They've ended up with Connor's back to Hank's chest. Connor looks at Hank’s hands, playing over the grooves on his stomach that are hidden by his flexible skin. "I," he begins, curling his hands over Hank's. “I am a deviant.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Hank says, kissing the crown of Connor’s head.

Connor shakes his head sharply and turns in Hank's arms. “It’s more than that. More than being told.” He’s not angry, just -- frustrated. “I had to feel it with my whole being, Hank."

“Oh,” Hank says. He puts his chin on Connor’s shoulder. “Sorry, kid, I shouldn’t be so --”

“No, no,” Connor says “I -- it unlocked. Everything. Deciding not to stop Markus -- it finally gave me a tangible wall to pull down. I never had such a choice, nothing so solid that I couldn't navigate around."

“Good,” Hank says, nipping Connor’s throat. “The mission?”

“I have a new one now,” Connor says, touching Hank’s jaw as Hank kisses his shoulder. “Right now, it’s staying -- home.”

“I thought right now,” Hank says, nudging Connor onto the mattress, “it’s debriefing your partner.”

“De-’boxing’, you mean?” Connor says, hooking a toe into Hank’s boxers waistband.

Hank pulls off his sleep shirt and tosses it in Connor’s face. “You know what I mean, smart ass.”

Connor sprawls willingly, opening his arms and thighs. Hank devours him, starting behind his ears and on down. Every place he puts his mouth radiates heat long after his lips have moved elsewhere. Connor makes sounds as he undulates beneath Hank’s arms. Some high in his throat, others deep in his chest. Like the first time, he feels them but does not hear them. They aren’t for him. They’re for Hank. And they do their work.

Hank bites on Connor’s nipples with a growl. He cups Connor’s groin and rubs, squeezes, chuckling deeply when Connor twists up against his hand.

“You’re so _easy_ ,” Hank says.

“I’m just inexperienced,” Connor mutters, “you’ll be sorry in a month or so.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be sorry about _this._ ”

Connor draws away from Hank, making clear he wants Hank on his back this time. He bows his head over Hank's chest and kisses down to the man's navel. He pulls Hank's boxers off and wraps his hand around Hank's half-hard cock. He tongues the foreskin, the taste of musk, soap, and sweat. What Connor knows to be Hank, however, is more than a collection of chemicals and genetics.

“Baby, yeah, _yeah._ ” Hank pushes a hand through Connor's damp hair and guides his erection past Connor’s open mouth. Connor's palms grow warm and white, rubbing Hank's thighs and hips.

Connor takes Hank's cock fully in his throat and hums. Hank makes sure he sets the pace with a firm hand. Connor grips Hank’s balls, squeezing with careful pressure. His sensitive fingers calculate their heat, their firmness, knowing the first contractions of Hank’s climax.

“Wanna take my time, kid,” Hank grunts, tapping at Connor’s cheek. Connor moves away and wrinkles his nose.

“We want different things, Lieutenant,” Connor says, sitting up on his knees. “But I believe our end goal is the same.”

“Sure,” Hank says.

Hank lies back on the bed to watch Connor work. He’s like a stone carving, a broad-shouldered god reclining on a marble divan. Connor is the consort boy that brings him wine, grapes, and pleasure. He is the beautiful youth sculpted to drape over his lord with adoration, devotion.

Connor thinks that image is quite poetic. When he isn’t fingering himself to make sure he’s slick enough to take Hank’s cock, he’ll share.

“God, I can hear you doing that,” Hank groans, hands on his face. “Jesus. Christ.”

“You’re -- impressive,” Connor says, moving his knees right over Hank's hips. His hand still works between his legs. “I wasn’t made for this initially, Lieutenant.”

“But you are great at adapting,” Hank says, licking his lips as Connor positions himself over his lap.

He looks at Connor in a manner that makes a pleasant spike of high-risk sensations in Connor’s system. His big hands rest on Connor’s thighs as Connor brings himself down on Hank's cock.

Connor is in control -- for the moment. He works to understand what it is his body is truly feeling. He knows the warnings of stress and risks in his system are alarms to tell him of what would be pain and danger, but there’s also the satisfying sense of confusing his own wiring. He lifts himself and drops back down and he makes a deep sound for Hank. Relieving the risk alerts and then stimulating them a moment later is jarring to his internal sensors. His temperature spikes, his blood pressure does too. His senses become overwhelmed as he rocks steadily on Hank’s lap, mouth open and freely sharing his voice.

“God, you’re so hot,” Hank groans, snapping his hips up, mouth open on Connor’s shoulder. “ _Fuck_.”

“Hank,” Connor says, in perfect repetition. “Hank, _Hank._ ”

“Show me baby,” Hank says, gripping at Connor’s thighs. He leans back. His eyes are wide. White and blue light up beneath Hank’s digging digits. “Show me what you _are_.”

Connor lays his head back. Hank likes to look at his neck. Hank likes to look at _him._

 **SHOW** HANK WHAT YOU ARE

I AM A **MACHINE.**

Connor’s real form glows in the curtained room. Soft blue light outlines Hank in silver. Hank can now see where Connor’s Thirium veins are, where the biocomponents are hidden in their sleek casings. Hank reaches to thumb right where Connor’s groin plate touches Hank’s flesh. He runs the thumbpad all along the bottom seam to finger the sensors. Connor makes a human groan and must brace himself on Hank’s shoulders. It’s so strange not to feel his hair brush over his face when he lowers his head.

Hank touches Connor’s cheek so that they face each other. He winces each time Connor rolls his body down, close to the edge but holding back. His eyes are electric blue, reflecting Connor’s inner light.

“That’s my pretty baby,” Hank whispers, thumbing Connor’s lip. “Connor.”

Connor envelops Hank’s thumb in his mouth. They both groan. He tastes his own android sweat with Hank’s. He feels Hank through his whole body, not just his cock or his hands but the _knowledge_ of him. This is Name: _Anderson_ , _Henry_ , Preferred: _Hank_ , Rank: _Lieutenant_ , who’d been the first person to know what Connor was. Now Connor knows too.

SHOW HANK **WHAT** **YOU ARE**.

I AM A **MACHINE.**

AND I AM **ALIVE.**

Hank drops his head back with a satisfied groan and comes inside Connor. This new feeling of heat where his core is trying to cool itself rips Connor down from the edge and into free fall. He cries out for Hank, his voice high and clear as if calling for assistance. Connor’s system overloads, heart too fast and body temperature rising too quick. Sound turns to crackling, then silence. Lights are shuttered. All his priorities, prerogatives -- he forgets them in the moment. When he becomes aware again, his visual senses blinking back to proper function, he pulls Hank out of him. The transgressive feeling of Hank's spend mixed with Connor's own slick is almost enough to fire his body off again. But he needs a rest. In Hank's arms.

"I don't feel different," Connor murmurs, after his system cools. He’s returned to his human facade. He’s pillowed against Hank's bicep, playing with the pale hairs on his chest. "I don't understand _why_ I don't feel different."

"I know we talked about it but -- you were already getting there, baby," Hank says, flicking Connor's forelock. "When do you have to leave?"

"Midday," Connor says. "I have to rendezvous with -- my new friends, and it might take some time to find them."

"I see," Hank says. He rubs Connor's spine. Connor makes a sound, one of many he’s made while they’ve been intimate. It’s not from his vocal relay. It’s reverb, it’s the internal churning of his android body.

"I like that noise," Hank says. He strokes Connor's throat. "It's pretty."

"I enjoy making it," Connor says. He's lowered his eyelashes and let his hair fall in his face, in a way that he knows Hank likes. "I enjoy a lot of things that I do for you."

"For me, huh," Hank says, shifting in their --

\-- the

\-- _their_ bed.

"Yes," Connor says. "Well, almost everything."

Hank tuts, snapping a hand against Connor's shoulder, all while Connor tries to drag Hank on top of him. "And what the hell don't you enjoy, huh?"

He likes it when you’re a lil’ shit.

"Listening to you," Connor says. And smiles.

 

* * *

 

The demonstration is the next day. Hank’s called in to help with human crowd control and curfew enforcement. He's got nothing better to do, because otherwise it’s sitting at home shitting himself with worry about whatever it is that Connor’s decided to do for the movement. He’s proud, of course, of whatever Connor's up to -- he was cagey on the details, for plausible deniability and all that bullshit -- but Hank would also like to see Connor alive at the end of everything.

So it’s a pretty big surprise when the boy just rolls up in a taxi at the end of the street Hank's working, poking his head out of the car. He’s in uniform, even, sticking out like a sore thumb, all the android markings glittering cerulean in the darkening evening.

Hank disengages from the other officers, jogging to the taxi while waving his tablet, like he was shooing a cat away from hopping up on a countertop.

"Connor, shee- _it_ , I thought you had things to do," Hank says, putting his hand on the taxi roof. He doesn't want to say too much, since who the fuck knows who's listening. "C'mon, you know it's dangerous for androids right now, CyberLife teacher's pet or not."

"I need your help at the precinct, Lieutenant," Connor says, wincing apologetically.

"Connor, you know I'm suspended right now," Hank admonishes.

Connor looks at him funny. "I thought we might --" He trails off.

"Look, look, okay," Hank says, "scoot over, I'll get in. We just gotta make sure you don't get caught by --"

He notices something's wrong, though he can't place it. Connor isn't right. Something about him is off.

Hank can definitely place the danger when Connor's hand goes to Hank's wrist and squeezes. Hard. There's a click of a gun and Hank is staring down the barrel of a gun.

"You're not going anywhere, Anderson," Connor says, and he smiles.

This prick is _not_ Connor.

His heart does a backflip into his throat. Holy shit. A _new_ Connor? Does that mean -- no, _fuck._ This is a ruse. He can’t think of the alternative. Hank's distracted enough he's tugged into the taxi without realizing it.

"You're not my Connor," Hank says.

"Astute observation," not-Connor says, making the shittiest little grin. Nothing is charming about _that_. "You're going to help me find the real one, Anderson."

Hank wants to dig his heels in. He decides not to. What would the point be? He could probably do more help for Connor following this asshole around than getting himself shot here. But at least now he knows this isn't some dickhead with Connor's memories. Connor's still out there. Hank figures Connor can work something out when not-Connor confronts him.

While the taxi drives away, Hank realizes what it was that had tipped him off, before his body could realize it. The one thing humans notice without thinking about it, since most of the time it's subtle.

This asshole hadn't smelled right. He smells sterile, like he's been hanging out in a hospital. Not like nasty bay water and wet soot, like Connor did in the ass-hours yesterday morning, or Hank's garden of soaps in his bath. His washing detergent. Hank's own scent.

If he thought his time in the drunk tank waiting for news about Connor was a trial of boredom and anxiety, this trip to the fucking Cyberlife plant was definitely worse. The not-Connor is sitting, a self-important piece of plastic shit, looking pleased with himself, not talking at all.

Connor will be okay, Hank thinks, as he’s courted out of the car at gunpoint. They’ll figure out a way around this asshole’s threats together.

No one bothers not-Connor while he forces Hank into a series of claustrophobic staff elevators, heading to a side entrance of one of the main product bays.

“If you say anything out loud to warn him,” not-Connor says, “I will shoot you, and then I will shoot him.”

“I thought you had a mission,” Hank growls, as the elevator opens.

“Parameters can be flexible, _Lieutenant._ ”

Connor’s far away, but Hank can hear him. Shuffling around the creepily still rows of new androids, still sleeping on their feet with their eyes open. When they make it to the center pathway, Connor’s got his hand around one android’s arm, squeezing and concentrating. Turning the android into a _deviant._

Not-Connor shouts, “Step back, Connor!”

Connor turns around in alarm. He doesn’t drop the android’s arm but he stops the connection, his hand going back to flesh color. His eyes widen like any human's would, seeing his doppelganger dragging his man around with a gun at his head.

“ _Hank?_ ” Connor asks.

“Step. Back. Do that, and I’ll spare him.” Not-Connor’s nasty little face is all but daring Connor to do anything new. Or maybe that’s just Hank projecting. He figured he can project all he wants when his life's at stake. “Keep at it, and you’ll see how allergic a human is to a bullet in its skull.”

“Sorry, Connor,” Hank says, grimacing as Connor looks at him, bewildered. “This bastard’s your spitting image. I wasn’t close enough to smell him to know the difference.”

A brief furrow graces not-Connor’s brow at Hank’s phrasing. Connor doesn’t let go of the android’s arm, but he’s definitely stiff with preconstructing a way to save Hank. He knows that weird jittery look in his eyes.

“Your partner’s life is in your hands,” Not-Connor says, clicking the hammer back on the gun. “So you get to decide what matters most. _Him_ , or the revolution.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Hank says. He doesn’t want to die. But this is a big deal. Connor’s going to free thousands and thousands of people and march to save more. If there’s a cause he can die for, this is worth it. “He’s full of shit, you know it.”

Connor’s proud little chin tilts up. Hank’s heart seizes at how proud he is of Connor, who’s deep in the belly of this fucking murderous, avaricious whale that is CyberLife, the people who’d rather pull him apart and pick at his mind to see why he’d grown a soul.

“I used to be just like you,” Connor says. “Nothing but the mission. But then one day I understood.”

Not-Connor recovers. His face goes full on judgmental bitch.

“Very moving, Connor,” he says, drawling. With plenty of emotional inflection. “But I’m not a deviant, like you are. I’m a machine designed to accomplish a task, and that’s what I intend to do.”

“Sorry, Hank,” Connor says. He’s still not budging, though. Atta boy. “You shouldn’t’ve gotten mixed up in this.”

“Just do what you gotta do, Connor,” Hank says. “Forget about me.”

“I’d rather not,” Connor says, eyebrows bowing.

“Enough talk,” Not-Connor snaps. “Decide, Connor. Are you going to save your friend’s life, or are you going to sacrifice him?”

“Connor,” Hank warns. "Don't."

He knows all of Connor’s little tells, and this one -- this shuddery intake of breath, visible to both Hank and not-Connor -- means he’s finally got the risk factored out enough to make a new move. _Damn it._

“All right,” Connor says, walking away, lifting up his hands. “You win. You win.”

“This is what deviating means,” Not-Connor says, with a satisfied smirk on his face. “You lose.”

Connor tilts his head. Then he says, with the most mild intonation possible: “Don't get cocky, you plastic prick. It’s not over yet.”

Not-Connor looks baffled to be addressed that way. That’s when Hank moves to bodycheck him to get the gun out of his hands. It's a miss, and he has to roll away before not-Connor gets a shot in. Hank gets a nice sound kick in the back before Connor dives forward, then Hank almost has a heart attack when he hears two shots fire off at the same time. When he looks up, both Connors are tussling, shoving and kicking and both of them bleeding from the same fucking shoulder, of course.

One of the guns is right by him and Hank nabs it, rolls up, and realizes just how fucking badly he needs to get back to the gym. All the running and fucking and kicking is getting to his poor spine. He can handle some aches a little while longer, though. Suck it up, old man.

“Both of you fucking stop,” he snaps. “ _Now._ ”

The Connors scramble to their feet in weird synchronization. _Fuck._ His first annoyed thought is, “they’re too far away to smell” -- like the fake Connor would let him get close enough to try.

He gets the feeling that Left is who he needs. Left looks fucking wigged out. Right is shoring himself up for -- something.

“Thanks, Hank,” Right says, exhaling with relief. “I was worried there. Let’s get rid of this guy and I’ll get back to what I was doing.”

“It’s me, Hank,” Left says, his voice trembling very slightly. “It’s Connor.”

Right mimics Left pretty clearly. “No, it’s me, Hank. You know me.”

“Okay, let’s play twenty questions,” Hank grunts. When had he fallen into a fucking Looney Toons episode? “Except it’s more like three questions, and one of you gets shot at the end of it.”

“Okay,” Left says. Right seems to be gearing up for a race.

Hank has a suspicion but he’s got to know. “Where did we meet?”

“ -- Jimmy’s Bar.” It’s Right. “I went to four other bars before I found you. We left on a homicide case.” He smiles, lopsided. “I bought you another for the road, remember?”

Left mutters something. It’s hard to hear. He shakes his head and rolls his shoulders.

“What’s my dog’s name?”

“Sumo,” Left answers, immediately. Right makes a face.

“I knew that too,” Right says. “Come on, Hank. Please. It’s _me._ ”

Hank adjusts his grip on his gun. He points it right at Left.

"What's my son's name?" he asks.

Left opens his mouth but Right answers.

"It's Cole," he says. "Your son's name is Cole. I'm so sorry about the accident, Lieutenant. I know how that hurt you. Why you are what you are today.”

“‘What you are today,’” Left mocks, lip curled. He looks _angry._

 _That's_ him. Hank has to _know_ , though. For sure. Toy around with this imposter just a little longer. Connor'll forgive him for giving this asshole some of its own shit.

Especially if Hank goes in for the kill. Something CyberLife could never know.

"Connor," he says, lowering his gun just a fraction, "What do I call you, when we're alone?"

Left's eyes light up. Right looks at Left and frowns. The processing is obvious. He’s digging.

"I thought it was three questions," Right says.

"Bonus round," Hank says. "Well?"

"You call me," Right says, "'kid.' You call me 'kid.'"

"That's in public," Hank says, tilting his chin up. He's still got his gun aimed between them, but his eyes are fully on Left. "When we're _alone_ , Connor."

Left smiles, his eyes squinting when he does. Hank’s heart clenches.

That's him. That's him 100%.

"You call me ‘baby,’" Connor says. His eyelids lower slightly, that shy thing he does with his lashes. "I'm your baby."

The fake Connor’s jaw drops slightly. His little light spins a very confused red. Hank's pretty surprised smoke isn't coming out this 'droid's ears. "I -- I kn-knew --"

There's nothing he can say to that revelation, though. Not even an attempt to make sense of it. It's so far beyond his ken that he's buffering nonsense.

The not-Connor _is_ a machine, like Connor always claimed to be. And it's a shame, because he could have learned, too, like Connor has. There’s always a chance, a choice. But right now, he's in the way of saving thousands and thousands of lives, of humans and androids both.

The imposter goes down with a single shot to the head. Connor steps forward into Hank's space. Hank wraps his arm around him, nose in his hair. He still smells like _home._

"You gonna be okay?" Hank asks.

"Yeah," Connor says. He leans back and touches the side of Hank's face. His fingers tremble just sightly. Hank reaches up to steady his hand, squeezing.

"I'm going to lead them to the demonstration,” Connor says. “I know where to go."

They're still working. So no funny stuff. And the night is long and dangerous and there needs to not be that last minute kiss. Like before, that’s too much of a goodbye. This should be a ‘see you later’.

Hank flicks the kid's temple. "You need to come back when you're done, you hear?"

"Come back … home?"

"Yeah," Hank says. He squints and looks Connor up and down. "...Maybe not dressed like that.”

Connor tilts his head, frowning. "Is my tie out of place?"

"In your _uniform_ , Connor."

"Oh." He’s so flustered he’s gone back to being literal. His tie _is_ out of place, but when he can start his little idle animations, Hank nudges them away to fix Connor’s clothes himself.

Connor's hands, just a little bit cooler than Hank's own, rest on his wrists as he does. They’re steady, now.

"I really think your people can save this fucked up world," Hank murmurs. "So get a move on, Connor. Wake these fuckers up."

Connor smiles. He's happy, Hank knows, and _free_ to be just that.

"Whatever you say, Lieutenant."

 

* * *

 

It's a cold, dry day, clear save a few flurries. The city is quiet with curfew still in effect. The few people there are on the street do not bother Connor as he makes his way across town.

Perhaps they recognize him from the news. 

It feels -- good, to be respected, or feared. Whichever it is, it means he is left alone. Not because what he is, but because of _who_ he is. 

He does have a mission this morning. A very simple one.

 **LOCATE** HANK

 **FIND** HANK’S CAR

The path is one he has not taken on foot. It is still one he knows. An innate sense of positioning, a fixed pole. In truth, he has tied his senses to a certain car's GPS, but it sounds more -- fanciful this way, to think he is drawn to his partner by some invisible tether. More _romantic_.

He has learned much about romance in the past few days.

TALK TO **HANK**

GREET **HANK**

 **TELL** HANK HOW YOU **FEEL**

His directions take him to Chicken Feed. A week ago, Connor had admonished Hank’s choice in foods and friends here. Hank had admonished Connor’s creators, his face, and his voice. They're certainly beyond that now.

Hank paces in front of the shuttered store. He hears Connor and stops. Connor walks across the street. He stands in front of Hank and smiles. He checks his wrist cuffs. He tightens his tie.

"Hi, Lieutenant," Connor says.

TALK TO **HANK**

GREET **HANK**

 **TELL** HANK HOW YOU **FEEL**

Neither of them say anything as Hank closes the gap between them. Hank places his hand right behind Connor’s neck and drags him in for a kiss. Connor all but skids forward. Hank gathers Connor close in the embrace at the center of a silent city, where dawn breaks on more than one new beginning.

“God, I’m so proud of you,” Hank whispers, his voice so deep it’d be hard to hear, without Connor’s well-tuned audio processors. They’re forehead to forehead, nose to nose, Hank’s heavy hand tightly against the back of Connor’s head. They rock back and forth, like there's music playing in the silence.

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor says. He raises his hands to rub Hank’s cheeks.

“Welcome back, baby,” Hank says.

“I’m glad to be back,” Connor says. He lowers his hands to put Hank’s clothing in order.

“I figure you’re a superstar now, might need to hide out for a while?” Hank grins, watching Connor smooth his striped shirt collar. “I know a place.”

“I -- yes,” Connor says. “I don’t know what happens next, Hank, but -- I want to be there with you.”

“Where the hell else would you be?” Hank’s toying with his hair. Petting his face. Down his neck. “You think I’m going to be letting you go?”

“Well, I am quite popular with the new android establishment,” Connor murmurs. “I’m sure they might need someone to assist them.”

“They can’t have you,” Hank says. “Besides, what would you be able to do? Lick legislation?”

“Hank --” Connor says. Hank kisses Connor again. Connor’s sensors light up from feet to fingers. His skin feels as if it’s steaming. When he pulls away from Hank, his breath clouds between them. Like Hank’s. They breathe the same air.

“Hank,” Connor says. Risk spikes his stomach. Stress makes his heart beat faster. “I have something to say.”

“Shoot,” Hank says.

TELL **HANK** HOW **YOU FEEL**

Hank laughs.

Connor has most of Hank’s laughter cataloged and stored. This one is new. It’s lighter somehow, even from Hank’s deep chest. There’s a small shudder of a sound in it. Like he may cry. Humans are wired poorly, though it’s no fault of their own: sometimes at their worst, they laugh. Sometimes at their best, they weep. Here is something between those points. The worst is over, the best is yet to come.

When Hank quiets, when he looks at Connor, his eyes are wet. He’s smiling.

“I do,” Connor says, reinforcing what he’s said. Touching Hank’s face. Drawing some of his hair against his whiskered cheek, trailing his fingers over the man’s lips. “I really do, Hank.”

“Same to you, kid,” he says, before he kisses Connor again, “same to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for all your support!! This was seriously planned as a two-parter, and that was it. There's a lot I'd like to go back and fix in the first couple chapters, and I'd love to do a "remix" in the near future to make all the pop-up stuff a little tighter and edit it more closely to the timeline.
> 
> My Tumblr is [here](http://tselina.tumblr.com/), and you can find my upcoming DBH longfic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026278/chapters/37403438). I'll also be filling some kink prompts for DBH too, just fun little spicy one-shots.
> 
>  (If for whatever reason you stumble on this fic years in the future, feel free to come chatter at me then, too. I love all my old fandoms!)


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